


Thy Kingdom Come

by ReginaCorda



Series: Dusk of Summer [3]
Category: Fleurmione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Deathly Hallows, F/F, Half-Blood Prince, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 133,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third and final sequel to Dusk of Summer. We enter into Hermione's sixth year at Hogwarts, in which a Death Eater infiltration will leave the safety of the school in ruins and Dumbledore dead. The trio must decide whether they will continue the work their late headmaster left them, and if a certain blonde Veela will be allowed to follow them in their quest, or if she'll be forced to stay behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Welcome Return

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, my darlings! Again, I do loathe summaries, but if you've stuck with me for this long, I trust you know enough about my writings to believe the content will surpass its meager overview. And to new readers, more than likely drawn in by the Explicit tag, welcome to you, too! The sexy won't begin in the first chapter, I believe its the second, but I will add additional tags as necessary and give warnings beforehand in the event that someone would rather skip the sex. And if you're here just for the sex, I'll take no offense, but some things might come off as confusing, so I do implore you anyway to read the other two to get a feel for the nature of this relationship and the mystical elements to it.  
> Now, this will probably be a majorly-incredibly-how-in-God's-name-did-I-write-so-much looooooong fanfiction, because I have merged both Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows into one fic. I have condensed as much as fucking possible, at least from HBP, so hopefully it won't seem terribly long-winded and pointless (at least that is my desperate hope). As I mentioned earlier, I will be leaving for Basic Training in October, but my dear friend faewolfxvi has agreed to post and beta chapters in my absence, so you, my lovelies, won't be left in anxious torment for months at a time. I love ya, Wolfy. Also, instead of the roughly weekly updates, you'll be getting one update every two weeks because Jesus Christ all mighty, these are long chapters. To give you an idea of just how long they are, I currently have 66,000+ words, and only thirteen chapters. So. Yeah. Hella long chapters.  
> And now for the usual disclaimers.  
> [WhistleSilver](http://whistlesilver.tumblr.com/), again, thank you for writing the bible of the Fleurmione fandom. I just finished it again for the sixteenth time, and it's still just as emotionally crippling as the first. Fantastic work, love.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter books, movies, or characters, much to my immense dismay. That privilege and honor belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros, neither of which do I hold any personal affiliation other than adoration. I just play around and make happen what I believe should have been. I will also borrow excerpts and mirror some styles from great poets and writers. It is to be noted that these excerpts will be cited after a chapter in which the excerpt is used and that I have only the utmost respect and gratitude for these brilliant gifts bestowed to the public by those talented scribes.  
> Hope y'all enjoy!

The dark, foreboding fog only grew as the summer drew on. Fleur found herself feeling liberated and safe while she worked within the vaults, away from the ever-encroaching darkness above. Even as the days grew longer, the night rudely intruded, and at the end of nearly every day, the clouds hung thick and dark in the sky, the fog more abundant with every passing hour. The Veela despised it, and knew very well what it meant.

The Ministry had had a change in governing as a new Minister had been named to replace Fudge. Rufus Scrimgeour was a lion of a man with a thick mane of graying tawny hair and bushy eyebrows that guarded keen, yellowing eyes. He was burly, strong, had an air of power around him that promised results; he was even the previous Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But even this new change, as large as it was, did not soothe the Veela.

Despite this, Hermione proved herself to be a wonderful distraction. Her vision was tunneled to contain only happiness, and if Fleur’s eyes so much as drifted off the window to check on the fog, the lioness drew her back with a word, hand, or kiss. She’d set strong wards around Hermione’s home, enough to keep danger at bay but little enough to allow her parents free leave. 

Much to her surprise, she was invited to the Burrow with Hermione, where she spent many happy afternoons with Mrs. Weasley tending to the gardens. She even made a few visits to Harry, much to the surprise of his relatives. Met by protest and the assurance that Harry was being treated fairly, she’d laughed, almost maliciously, and reported that, yes, she’d heard from Harry just the other day, but she dearly missed her friend, and thought that a little visit wouldn’t hurt anyone. She’d been mostly correct, of course; the only thing wounded was the Dursley’s sense of pride, but that was easily hurt anyway. Harry was delighted to see her, although he was disheartened to hear that she would not be taking him to the Burrow. They’d spent the afternoon wandering about London with Hermione and Ron; Fleur went as far as showing them around the vaults of Gringotts a bit with assistance from Bill.

As long as the lioness was by her side, Fleur felt content despite her ever-ready supply of adrenaline and anxiety. She could fight, she could protect, and that was the only thing that kept her sane. Hermione seemed to feel the same, but no danger had stuck near home yet, leaving her heart unclenched from worry for the most part.

For the Veela, the only true refuge was found within the tribe. Hermione went with her, of course, and found that the babies had grown a lot since her last visit. They were nearly as large as their father, and had learned how to fly. Several had grown attached to a few Veela in the village, and given their early domestication, there was no need to tame them with the deadly dance Fleur and Shamin had performed. The largest female, one none other than Fleur could approach, took immediate interest in Hermione.

“And you said she was shy?” Hermione asked as the Horntail licked her face repeatedly before she nuzzled the Gryffindor’s chest.

“Well, she was,” Fleur chuckled.

Despite being covered in saliva, Hermione was glad she’d talked Fleur into a visit here. It hadn’t been hard, but it was very rewarding. Fleur’s shoulders lost the rigidity they’d held since the Department of Mysteries. Her eyes were wide and bright, her voice light and joking. It was like every worry she had was left at the edge of the forest. And Hermione missed this Fleur. She missed her happiness, her smile, her laugh and she reveled in the fact that she had her Veela back, at least for the moment. She understood her stresses, her worries, but how dearly did she miss the easy smiles and laughs.

“Here,” Fleur said, conjuring a towel for her though her laughter. “I’m sorry about that, love.” She continued, wiping away tears. They were the first happy tears in months.

“Thanks,” Hermione replied, and wiped herself clean while the dragon looked on happily.

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Sure!” the lioness said with a wide grin, and approached Shamin.

“Actually, Hermione, I thought you could try her,” Fleur gestured to the female.

She hesitated. “Has she ever been ridden?”

“Only by me, but she’s taken to you like the others have taken to their Veelas,”

“Are you saying that I get a dragon?” Hermione whispered.

“If the two of you forge the bond,” Fleur returned laughing. “It won’t be a dance of strength, but trust.”

“What about a saddle?”

“You may not have to tame her, but you do need to trust her. She won’t let anything happen to you.” Fleur took her hand and gingerly placed it in the middle of the dragon’s head as she had so long ago when she introduced the lioness to Shamin. The female closed her eyes at the contact and sighed contentedly.

“What is her name?” Hermione asked softly, her fingers gently stroking patterns over the onyx scales.

“She’ll tell you once the bond is sealed. Shamin didn’t tell me until we fell, but you do not have to dance as we did. Shamin was wild, and she is not.” Fleur kissed her gently, trailing her lips over her neck. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course.” Hermione looked at the dragon where she was purring under her hand, then cast her gaze to the expanse of blue above her. She wanted to feel the freedom of the wind and sky, she wanted to race the sun and chase the clouds. Veela excitement bubbled within her and spilled over. With a sly smile, she climbed up the Horntail’s back, settled comfortably between her spines and pulled her hair into a ponytail. The dragon chirped happily, clicking her teeth to get her father’s attention. He looked on and growled playfully, pawing at the ground.

“If anything happens, I’ll be in the air, too. Now, you’ll need to hold here,” she instructed, guiding Hermione’s hand to the Horntail’s spines at her shoulders. “And hold with your legs like you would a horse. Ready?”

Hermione nodded, adrenaline surging through her system. She pulled Fleur in and kissed her briefly, watching as she sauntered to the other dragon and mounted easily. Shamin stretched his wings, and surveyed his daughter as she did the same. Fleur shot her one last reassuring look, and took to flight. Hermione followed, the female lurching forward and upwards as the Gryffindor tightened her hold on the Horntail.

She felt weightless and lost all feeling in her lower extremities where they clutched the dragon’s sides. Huge, black wings easily caught the wind, and lifted her, rushing past her ears so fast she barely heard Fleur’s shout of “Hold on, and remember, it’s a test!”

They spiraled skyward, the Horntail’s wings curving inward as she did. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and saw Fleur astride Shamin, flying in the same fashion as she. The Veela wore a wide smile and leaned forward against the dragon, as flat as she could get along his back. Hermione struggled against the wind to reach the same position, but once she got there she found it was much more comfortable as the wind passed over her rather than fought against her.

Suddenly, the Horntail pulled out of the upward spiral so her back faced the ground. They plummeted towards the earth, and Hermione screamed as she fell backwards. She clutched to the dragon for dear life, and tried to suck air into her lungs. Chemicals flooded her brain, numbing her to everything except wind, the hard scales under her hands, and gut-wrenching fear. She heard Fleur let out a loud whoop of excitement, as she too plummeted, for Shamin had entered into a nosedive. The Horntail beneath Hermione regained control, and pointed her body down as she folded her wings. Tears streamed from the Gryffindor’s eyes against the wind, and she’d lost all breath as well as the ability to draw it.

The ground was rushing up at them now, and her mind calmed without proper reason. She bent her neck so her forehead pressed against the dragon’s shoulders. They had to be close to the ground now, for she could hear the leaves dancing in the wind. She squeezed her eyes closed, and relaxed her entire form against the Horntail’s body. She felt the wind and smelled the earth, and beneath her, she heard the dragon’s thundering heartbeat. With a single movement, she straightened, her hands outstretched by her sides.

They never struck the ground. The Horntail’s paws brushed the grass as she pulled out of the dive at the very last moment, before racing to the sky again in pursuit of her father. Again, she spiraled, and opened her jaws as flames burst from her throat. She let a loud, booming cry echo through the sky, and pumped her wings more vigorously. Shamin’s cry answered hers, and another bright light lit up the world behind Hermione’s eyelids. She opened her eyes slowly, and saw that they’d leveled out, Shamin and Fleur flying beside them, both looking pleased.

“Has she told you her name?” Fleur called. Hermione shook her head, unable to speak. “You might have to ask her!”

Hermione looked back down at the black dragon, who chirped at her over her shoulder. Again, Hermione pressed her forehead against her scales, and thought, _What is your name?_

The answer was almost immediate. It sounded from the depths of her mind like a gentle bell, murmuring softly from the edge of her conscious. It was not a human voice, it was not an animal voice; it did not contain words or syllables, but sounds, as soft and natural as the sound of rain or thunder or leaves against wind.

 _My name is Alkaia._   

Hermione straightened suddenly, glowing with mirth and excitement. She found the ability breathe again, and shouted from atop the dragon, who responded with another burst of flame. Shamin swooped over them, his shadow passing them before he leveled out at Alkaia’s side. Fleur’s hair whipped wildly about, very nearly free from its bind at the crown of her head.

“Alkaia!” Hermione shouted happily. “Her name is Alkaia!”

Fleur laughed loudly, and stroked Shamin’s scales lovingly. “Fantastic! Now delve deeper, finish connecting your minds! See as she does!”

It was a strange task to perform with no further instruction or clue, at an astonishing height while soaring over the ground. But she knew, somehow, exactly what to do. She let go of Alkaia’s spines and opened her arms to the wind. She bore no wings, but felt the wind catch in the dragon’s, she felt her power and her strength with every beat. She tried to speak her language, but upon racking her brains, could not recall a memory of Fleur speaking to Shamin in a particular tongue. But she could _feel,_ she didn’t need to speak. Alkaia felt her confusion, and reached out from the other side of the void to assist her across. She showed her a memory of a place Hermione had never seen before, a beautiful mountain with craggy cliff faces, a panoramic view of the Veela forest. Her chest lifted in eager anticipation, and the Horntail rumbled, and changed her course.

“Where are we going?” Fleur called.

“The mountain!” Hermione laughed back.

And so they flew, covering more ground than Hermione knew was filled with Veela and wild beasts that, by the transgression of human nature, should have faded from the trees ages ago. The Horntails landed with a thud against a cliff face, clinging to the rocks with their talons and the curved claw at the tip of their wings. They rumbled happily to one another, clicking their teeth and breathing small flickers of flame.

Hermione’s legs tightened around Alkaia’s sides, and looked down. Thrill filled her from what had to be at least a two-hundred-foot drop. She felt dauntless, and yearned to take to the sky again. But the dragon under her was not so willing. She wanted food and rest before they headed back to the village.

“She needs to eat something,” Hermione said, looking at Fleur were she was perched on Shamin at her side.

“And so do I. Are you up for a learning experience, love?”

“What kind?” she returned, excitement flaring in her chest again.

“You’re Veela now,” Fleur shrugged. “A few skills could be useful.”

“And what skills are those?”

“Basic survival, of course.” Fleur winked.

“Is that a challenge, Fleur?” Hermione asked, settling her hands on her hips as she locked the Veela in her gaze.

A feral smile lifted the corners of Fleur’s lips. “It is if you want it to be.”

Hermione returned with her own wild smile, and turned her attention to Alkaia. The Horntail fell away from the cliff face, and soared upwards again before Fleur could react. Alkaia landed again with a gentle jolt on a flat rock near the top of the mountain, Shamin landing beside her as Fleur leapt from his back. The Horntail chirped at her, and she lifted her hand in return. With that, he opened his wings to flight once more, and raced away. Hermione found her legs were unwilling to support her as she climbed down Alkaia’s back, wobbling slightly as she walked alongside the dragon. She rubbed her head affectionately, earning a nuzzle and a chirp, before she took her leave in the opposite direction of Shamin.

“How do you feel?” Fleur asked, wrapping her arms around the lioness.

Hermione hummed for a moment before she lifted her lips to her cheek, planting a long kiss there. “I feel like I have to learn how to walk again, but I feel fantastic at the same time, too. So,” she said, looking around. “What lessons are you going to teach me?”

The Veela chuckled and held up a finger. “Lesson number one: Always have your wand on your person.”

“But, I’m underage,” Hermione protested.

“Indeed, but only for another year. Just bear that in mind for future reference. For now, I’ll handle anything that requires a wand,” She released the lioness and began walking down the mountain. Hermione followed, interest bubbling inside her. “Lesson number two: The forest provides everything necessary for survival. And this is how we use it…”

The two spent the afternoon and early evening exploring the forest and creating weapons to hunt with. Fleur had taught Hermione how to use a bow the previous summer, and brushed up her skill with it. She showed her the bountiful fruits, berries, and mushrooms the forest offered for their safe consumption. They gathered and stored a large cache, and Fleur offered to go hunting for them and extended an invitation. Hermione was hesitant, but eager to learn nonetheless. Then, shakily at first, they took to the trees, where Hermione learned stealth and silence. She watched Fleur with a keen eye as she began showing signs of the Veela as they moved from tree to tree. She moved with silent grace, every muscle locked into place but not so tightly coiled she shook with the effort. Suddenly, she lifted her head, her nostrils flared. The bow in her hands followed, and she slid an arrow into place. She drew the string back, the muscles of her arm contracting as she did. Her eyes narrowed in their concentration, and her lips moved swiftly, a few words barely audible to Hermione.

Hermione followed the point of the arrow, desperate to find the target. She found it just as the arrow flew with lethal precision. There was a great rise of noise, and the charge of a doe as she burst from the foliage. Fleur followed. Hermione tried to keep up with her, despite her lack of navigational skill or surefooted grace Fleur possessed, but she managed. Fleur was intent on following the blood trail, and found it easily, assisted by the wreckage the doe had left in her wake. Her catch was clinging to life, so sure her shot at been. Her prayer was audible this time as she drew her knife and approached the deer. She thanked her for death, and promised it would not go to waste. Hermione looked away, and thanked the gods by name that she died silently.

Fleur herself eviscerated the catch. She left a bountiful offering to the forest, to nourish it in return for its gift to her. With the offering left, she replaced her knife and drew her wand. She kept up her concentration and levitated the doe back to the top of the mountain, where she set up a large fire.

“And finally, lesson number twenty-nine: Having an ample set of conjuring skills can make living off the land much more pleasant,” the Veela laughed. To demonstrate her point, she flicked her wand again and a large basin of water appeared beside the fire. “Wash up before dinner, love,”

“Can you conjure a shower, by chance?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Not the one you’re thinking of, but there is a large waterfall on the north side of the mountain. I’ll take you there after we eat,”

“What about the dragons?”

Fleur set about arranging the kill in pieces over the embers, careful to charm them so that they levitated just over the heat. “I’ll call for them later. They can take care of themselves.”

“So, you learned all this when you were how old?” Hermione asked a time later, after the remaining meat had been smoked and stored for Asteria when they returned.

“I was six when I learned how to make fire, eight when I learned to hunt and fish, and ten when I was sent to survive on my own for a month before attending Beauxbaton’s. It’s a rite of passage for us, but there were sisters watching, in case something went dreadfully wrong.”

“And how was that? Surviving?”

Fleur smiled and lifted a shoulder. “I studied well and had good teachers. I kept track of the moon, counted the days until I returned, but it was quite easy, at least at first. Nearly mauled a few times, but I was evasive as a child,” she chuckled. Hermione seemed pale.

“In the event that we have children,” she started slowly. “I would much prefer it if they did not participate in such activities.”

Fleur seemed surprised by this, and bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Do you want children?” she asked softly.

“I imagine I will,” the lioness returned. “But I know I wouldn’t be happy if their mother told me they were ‘nearly mauled a few times.’” She said, fixing Fleur in her stare.

“There are always sisters watching during those rites. They’d never let harm fall to one of their own,” Fleur murmured. “I think it was very beneficial. Should one find themselves alone in the forest, left to one’s own devices, it would help to have had some sort of experience similar to it before. But I’d rather cross that bridge when we get to it, rather than at the moment.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. “Far too soon to debate the idea, you’re right. Now, where was that waterfall you mentioned earlier?”

Fleur stood with a laugh, and helped Hermione to her feet. She extinguished the fire, and took to the trees again, the lioness chasing after her. She felt more exhilarated than she had in weeks, despite her daily runs. They helped her newfound restless nature, but did not stave off the urge for long. But chasing Fleur, pushing the limits of her speed, strength, and stamina to keep up with her was more than enough to keep the need at bay. Even though her body did not carry Veela traits, her soul did, and it reveled in this vigorous, undaunted play.

Fleur raced ahead of her, dashing between trees and over roots. Hermione was right behind her, but balked as the ground gave way to empty space. Fleur launched herself over the edge of the cliff, and a splash sounded from below. Hermione chanced a glance over the ledge, and saw Fleur floating on her back in the water, her hand lifted and beckoning her to join.

Hermione stepped closer to the edge and watched as particles of rock and dirt fell away, and immediately retreated. The deafening roar of the waterfall pounded against her skull, nearly drowning out Fleur’s voice as she called to her in encouragement, promising the water was deep enough to jump in. Adrenaline surged though her system, and she fought her instinct. She took several steps back, sucked in a breath, and ran, arching into a neat dive as she hit the water. When she resurfaced, Fleur’s arms were wrapped around her tightly, her body shaking with laughter.

“For a moment, I didn’t think you would do it,” the Veela chuckled.

“We should have bet on it, then,” Hermione returned with a jest, elbowing Fleur. She turned in her arms and kissed her gently, her hands cupping warm, bare shoulder blades. She pulled away abruptly, and saw that the Veela was, indeed, naked.

“I don’t usually bathe with my clothes on, you see,” Fleur chuckled, swimming over to a shallower part of the water. Hermione followed, pleased to find that rock greeted her toes as she stretched her leg out in hope to find the bottom.

“I suppose that is a smart thing to do,” Hermione chuckled as she peeled off her clothing and threw it onto a nearby stone. Fleur joined her, and swept her hair away from her neck to plant a long kiss there. Hermione fell against her, reveling in her touch as she felt Fleur’s hips against her back, all bare skin and no barrier between.

“Before I let you carry me away,” Hermione sputtered, pulling away from the Veela. “We need to talk about precisely this.” Fleur seemed confused, but attentive, watching her with a knit brow. “I understand why you haven’t been yourself lately. It’s unnerving, I know. It’s dangerous. But I want to focus on just being happy while we still can,” she rested her hands against Fleur’s shoulders, locking eyes with her. “This is the most _you_ I’ve seen in weeks. Since the Department of Mysteries. I want to keep seeing the normal you, the usual you, instead of the sullen, battle-ready, someone’s-going-to-jump-out-at-me-at-any-time you. I miss it,” she paused to kiss the Veela’s lips. “Let’s focus on being happy, okay? We can go back to the village, or to your cottage, your mother’s, the Burrow, anywhere you feel safe, just as long as I can see this you.”

Fleur sighed, and rested her forehead against Hermione’s. Her eyes slipped closed and a breath rushed past her lips in a sigh. “I’ll do my best, Hermione. I’m on edge and I don’t foresee that changing at all, but I will focus on you and being happy with you.” She pressed her lips to the Gryffindor’s brow. “You mean everything to me. I can’t lose you…”

Hermione stretched to brush her lips with Fleur’s, looping her arms around her neck. “I’m not going anywhere, dearest.” She whispered against her skin. “Even if I tried, you could catch me.”

The two watched the moon rise as the sun fell, and as the stars took their places in the sky. They lay upon large slabs of stone, still warm from the sun, their hands intertwined as Fleur guided her around their constellation. André’s journal had assisted the lioness in her study, and even though she saw much of Fleur’s sky, she could not understand it as the Veela did. For once in her life, she was content with the limits of her understanding, comfortable with the unknown that came from it.

When their hair had dried, Hermione’s mane as untamed and wild as it had been during her first year at Hogwarts, they dressed again and Fleur called the dragons with a series of loud screeches. It was nearly impossible to see them against the black sky, until they landed in the water themselves. They seemed to take great joy in splashing the two witches, building enormous waves with their wings until Fleur threw herself to Shamin’s back, laughing and screaming and insisting that he stop. He rumbled lowly in what apparently was laughter, earning him a hard nudge from his Veela.

Alkaia was more polite than her father and climbed from the water without such a fuss, and sat with Hermione as the other two tried to best the other. Fleur inevitably lost, and emerged soaked to the bone upon Shamin’s back. The Horntail looked almost smug as Hermione mounted the other, and took to flight again.

As they soared over the trees, Hermione remembered her last nighttime adventure in the air. The thestral had been strong and solid, yes, but the sight of the lean dragon robbed her of any sense of fear. It had been terrifying to shoot through the sky while seeing nothing but the ground below, the only reassurance that there was in fact a body below her the solid feel of muscle and heat, but that hadn’t garnered much security. Instead, she saw the Horntail’s wings beating the air, lifting her higher against the stars. Where before she’d seen the lights of lampposts and villages, she now saw trees, grass, rock and water, lit only by the moon and stars. And beside her, Fleur flew, tendrils of dark blonde hair lifted by the wind and pulled behind her, a large smile stretched across her lips.

They stopped briefly to offer their cache as a gift to Asteria and the village before they left again (after somewhat taming their appearance) and Apparated to the Burrow. Molly Weasley was glad to receive them, but saddened to hear that they’d already eaten, but dismissed the notion nonetheless. The twins were glad to see the Veelas, Ron had already retired to bed, and Ginny was busy assisting the twins in packaging some new products for their joke shop.

They conversed happily for a time until Hermione and Fleur retired as well to their shared room after a more suitable shower. Mrs. Weasley did not yet know about their sealed partnership, and as a result, they did not allow themselves the luxury of indulgence.

Harry joined them late the next night. It wasn’t until morning that the household was informed, and upon hearing of it, Hermione rushed in to bid Harry a good morning. The wizard sat up, rubbing his eyes as one hand groped for his glasses.

“Hermione?” He mumbled, peering through the lenses. His eyes were unfocused, and apparently unwilling, as their pupils slowly contracted to accommodate the amount of light streaming in through the window.

“When did you get it? Mum’s only just told us,” the voice of Ron Weasley was processed by his brain, the answer to the question took its own time in leaving his mouth.

“About one o’clock this morning,” he grumbled.

“Ah, that’s why you sleep like the dead.” Another voice chided. “Perhaps we should give him some time.”

“Fleur? You’re here too?” Harry asked.

“Of course, Harry. Nowhere else I’d rather be,” as his eyes adjusted, he saw how the Veela’s arm flexed about Hermione’s waist where they sat at the foot of his bed.

“Were the Muggles all right? I know Fleur stopped in a few times, although you sent letters,” Ron asked softly.

“Same as usual. Didn’t talk to me much, but I prefer it that way,” he struggled to sit upright in bed, reluctant to leave the warmth of his blanket. “How are you all?”

They each gave him variations of the same ‘I’ve been fine,’ answer, but they all were looking at him with what appeared to be growing concern.

“What’s the time?” He asked, suspicious of their questioning looks, “Have I missed breakfast?”

“Don’t worry about that, Mum’s bringing you up a tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “So, what’s been going on?”

“Nothing much, I’ve been stuck at my aunt and uncle’s house all summer, haven’t I?”

“Come off it!” said Ron. “You’ve been off with Dumbledore!”

“It wasn’t that exciting; he just want me to help him persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name’s Horace Slughorn.”

“Oh,” Ron returned softly, a disappointed look on his features. “We thought—”

At this, Hermione flashed him a warning glare, and he hastily changed his words. “—we thought it’d be something like that.” Harry did not miss this exchange, and neither did Fleur, but instead of raising her voice, she continued to study Harry, and broke her eyes away when she knew he had no desire to speak of the matter the other two so desperately needed to know his feelings on.

“You did?” Harry asked, steering the conversation from dangerous waters. He saw the smirk that lifted Fleur’s lips slightly, and felt very grateful that she did not comment, that she knew it was not the right time. He felt gratitude towards his friends, too, for their concern for him, but Fleur’s easy acceptance of his current thoughts, thoughts that he’d rather avoid, on the matter of Sirius or his death was refreshingly welcome.

“Yeah… yeah, now that Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, don’t we? So, er, what’s he like?”

“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin—is there something wrong, Hermione?”

Fleur silently tsked her mate’s lack of tact or composure as she quickly pulled an expression of interest over her one of worry and said, “No, of course not!” a little too quickly. “So, um, did Slughorn seem like he’ll be a good teacher?” she finished.

“Dunno,” Harry returned softly. “He can’t be worse than Umbridge, can he?”

They made a collective murmuring of agreement. Mrs. Weasley bustled through the door with a tray of breakfast for Harry, and kissed his forehead upon seeing him awake. She gathered up any laundry that was strewn about, dirty or not, and left the room again.

“She seems like something’s weighing on her mind,” Harry said softly as he speared a bit of egg.

Fleur sighed. “She does, Harry. She’s worried about Tonks,”

“Tonks?”

Ron bit his lip. “She blames herself for…” he glanced at Harry. “She blames herself.” Harry’s stomach dropped. They’d arrived at Sirius. Despite the shift, he began shoveling food into his mouth to avoid speaking. “They barely knew each other, and their families had never met, but she still thinks it’s her fault.”

“How does she work that one out?” Harry asked in spite of himself.

“Well,” Hermione began, “She was fighting Bellatrix wasn’t she? I think she feels that if she could have finished her off, Bellatrix couldn’t have...”

“But she had been knocked unconscious,” Fleur murmured. “I tried to revive her, but the spell was too strong to make short work of it. I had to go back, perhaps if I—”

“No.” Harry’s voice carried across the space in a low timbre, a rumble from his chest. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. You did more in that fight than you should have. It is not your fault, it’s not Tonks’s fault, it’s mine and Bellatrix’s. If I had looked at that damn mirror, if I had listened to Hermione, and Dumbledore, and learned how to _shut him out,_ perhaps it would have been different. But she delivered the blow, she made that decision. And one day she will regret that decision to the fullest extent.” He growled, his eyes never breaking away from Fleur’s. “Do not blame yourself.”

“You shouldn’t either. Yes, things could have been avoided, but you were worried, and rightfully so. You did not land or take part in the killing blow. Not Sirius’s, at least.” The Veela looked down at her own hands. “But we’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we, mon ami?”   

Harry met her eyes slowly. He looked down at her hands before he looked at his own. They'd had the conversation before. And it scared him. But now, as he looked at the Veela, he saw his own sorrow and fear mirrored back at him. She was not ruthless. She was not bloodthirsty. She was not fearless, contrary to popular belief. She was terrified, shaken down to her roots with fear. In a moment, everything she loved could be gone. With one spell, her love could die, withering away like a rose in the desert.  

“We have,” he returned softly. “But how is Tonks? Is she, is she any better?”

Hermione sighed heavily, and seemed relieved for the change in topic. “Not really. Lupin is trying to help her around, but I don’t know how much good it's doing. She’s touched by his efforts, for sure, but that can only go so far.”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice called from downstairs, beckoning Ginny. The youngest Weasley reluctantly answered her summons, and relayed to the others that they should report downstairs soon as well. Harry continued to quietly eat his breakfast for a few moments, before voicing another question purely for the sake of conversation.

“So how’s the joke shop coming along? They have plenty of merchandise here,”

“Yeah, they do. They’re using their room here as storage space while they get everything set up in Diagon Alley. Mum wants Dad to come along for extra security measures, but since he’s been so busy at work we haven’t gotten a chance to check it out yet. Sounds excellent though, from what we’ve heard.”

“And what about Percy? Is he talking to your mum and dad again?”

“Nope,” Ron returned.

“But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back—”

“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right,” Hermione offered. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing he would say,” Fleur murmured.

“He’s going to be giving me private lessons this year,” Harry piped. 

Ron choked on his bit of toast and Hermione gasped.

“You kept that quiet!” said Ron.

“I only just remembered. He told me last night in your broom shed.”

“Blimey… private lessons with Dumbledore!” Ron said, looking impressed. “I wonder why he’s…”

His voice died as he traded a look with Hermione and Harry’s heart set to pounding. He gingerly set his cutlery down, and drew a breath. Dumbledore told him to do it… now was the time.

“I don’t know exactly why he’s giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy.”

No one spoke. Fleur rose to leave, unwilling to impose on the secrecy the three had established so long ago.

“You don’t have to go, Fleur. You already know.” Harry whispered.

The Veela took her seat again.

“You know?” Hermione asked.

“It was not my place to tell,” she returned softly.

“Well,” Ron spoke up. “The _Prophet_ says—”

“The _Prophet’s_ got it right.” Harry interrupted. “That glass ball that smashed wasn’t the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore’s office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said…” Harry took a deep breath and glanced at Fleur. She gave a small nod. “It looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off Voldemort… At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”

Ron’s chest heaved in surprise.

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

Only Fleur remained unchanged, unmoving at the foot of Harry’s bed, stroking the back of Hermione’s hand where it rested in her lap.

“Harry…” the lioness finally whispered. “Oh, Harry… We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry… We didn’t want to say anything to you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we thought it might be something like this…”

“Are you scared, mate?” Ron whispered.

“Not as much as I was,” Harry returned. “When I first heard it, I was… but now it seems as though I always knew I’d have to face him in the end…”

“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in person, we thought he might be telling you something or showing you something to do with the prophecy,” Ron said eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren’t we? He wouldn’t be giving you private lessons if he thought you were a goner, wouldn’t waste his time—he must think you’ve got a chance!”

“That’s true,” Hermione murmured. “I wonder what he’ll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably… powerful countercurses… anti-jinxes…”

Harry stopped listening. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with sunlight or the blanket pooled around his lap; a tight obstruction around his chest seemed to be dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere fact that they were still there on either side of him, speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking from him as though he were contaminated or dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them. He locked eyes with Fleur, who offered him a smile.

 _I told you,_ the smile said. _You’re not alone. We’ll stand by you._

“…and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Hermione. “Well, at least you know one lesson you’ll be having this year, that’s one more than Ron and me. I wonder when our O.W.L. results will come?”

“Can’t be long now, it’s been a month,” Ron returned.

“Hang on,” Harry said, as another part of the previous night’s conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore said we’ll be getting the results today!”

“Today?” Hermione shrieked. _“Today?”_ with that, she burst from the room, nearly tipping a cardboard box tower over in her haste.

Ron sighed, and followed her.

“Thank you, Fleur,” Harry murmured.

She patted his knee gently before rising. “Nothing to thank me for. No one’s going to abandon you, Harry. Hermione, and Ron, they’re far too loyal. And me,” she chuckled. “Even if I wasn’t irreversibly tied to Hermione and her wishes, I’d still be loyal, too.” With that, she left the room.

Harry changed out of his pajamas, and joined the others downstairs about ten minutes later. Hermione was stalking up and down the west wall, her fingers twisted together.

“No owls, I take it?” Harry whispered to Fleur as he joined her in watching the lioness pace.

“None so far,” she returned softly before raising her voice slightly. “Darling, it’s only nine, and you’re far too young to be developing blood pressure issues. Plenty of time left for the owls, and I’d rather not see you pace yourself into an early grave,”

“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” the lioness muttered. “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. Defense Against the Dark Arts was flawless, Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back—”

Fleur planted herself in Hermione’s tracks. She took the lioness into her arms and kissed her forehead gently.

“My dearest and most cherished love,” she intoned against her skin. “You’ll do fine. Wonderfully,” she said louder as Hermione began to protest. “I’m sure. Stop fretting. They’ll be here soon, and you’ll have done a fantastic job.”

Hermione met her eyes, and drew a deep breath. “I suppose you’re right… Nothing to fret over… what’s done is done and all that…”

A few minutes later three tawny owls pecked insistently at the window, and Hermione was driven into frenzy all over again. Fleur physically restrained her, and opened her letter. She flicked her eyes over it and smiled broadly.

“Hermione, you honestly worried over this? A single ‘Troll’ won’t hurt your chances at all, darl—”

“WHAT?” The paper was snatched from Fleur’s hands, and she was beaten with it shortly after. “You sneaky little teasing pest!” Hermione accused, striking the Veela with the parchment for the final time while she laughed manically. “Honestly, if you ever lie to me about such a serious matter ever again, I will—I’ll—I’m not sure what I’ll do but it won’t be good!” she finished with a loud huff, her hands on her hips as she glared at the blonde, who smiled back.

“So what did you get?” Harry asked, glancing between the two witches.

“I—did not get a ‘Troll,’” Hermione murmured, breaking her stare from Fleur, while the Veela still giggled childishly over her successful mischief.

“Come off it,” Ron laughed and took her paper from her. “Yep, Harry, she’s failed us all. Eleven ‘Outstandings,’ how dare you score so poorly, Hermione.” Ron chided, bumping her shoulder.

“What about you two?” she asked softly, still eyeing Fleur.

“Failed Divination and History of Magic,” Harry piped up. “That was expected, of course. Everything else is passing, though,” he said softly, any thought of the earlier conversation dead in his mind.

“Yep! Guess we’re N.E.W.T. students now!” Ron said happily.

Harry suddenly seemed too distracted to converse, and stared down at his report. Fleur could guess why. When he’d announced his scores, he had not achieved and ‘Outstanding’ in Potions, and thus would not be accepted into the N.E.W.T. level, taking with it the possibility of any chance of becoming an Auror. The Veela patted his shoulder with a smile, while Hermione and Ron took to arguing over some mundane thing; perhaps the last bit of sausage. Ever since Hermione’s metabolism spiked, she and Ron had been fighting like wolves over food. Mrs. Weasley was surprised by her sudden change in appetite, but well accustomed to Ron’s, and shortly sent the two of them outside to tend to the chickens while she cooked more food. 

“I’ll be happy to mentor you, Harry. You’d still have a chance at it during the preliminary testing at the Ministry, anyway.” Fleur murmured, sitting beside him on the couch.

The Gryffindor forced a smile and folded his paper away. He said nothing.

“That’s your ambition, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “To become an Auror?” He nodded. “You shall have it, then.”

“What is your ambition, Fleur? Certainly not the vaults of Gringotts forever.”

She chuckled softly. “No, banking nor curse-breaking were never ambitions of mine. Stepping-stones, actually. I’ve been thinking about taking the Auror path, as well, but it seems like I could have a solid chance at becoming a Healer.”

“Hermione told me Kingsley was mentoring you. How was that?”

“Interesting, to say the least. I learned a lot, secret Order charms and the like, really tricky defensive spells, trickier offensive spells. The Veela have their own magic and I’ve been brushing up on them, too. Hermione’s began learning the very basic skills with my grandmother, best for her practice under the Ministry’s radar.” she laughed.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,”

Presently, the smell of another fresh batch of breakfast wafted through the house, and Hermione and Ron returned to the kitchen moments before the last bit of egg was spooned from the pan. Harry watched as her full plate emptied, and chatted softly with Fleur about all her changes since the completion of the ritual.

“So it changed that much?” he asked, studying Hermione’s tall, lean form. “It’s almost like she’s super-human,”

Fleur laughed. “No, not human. Veela.”

“But, you’re only quarter, and if she now has half of a quarter-Veela’s soul, she has an eighth, so shouldn’t it be less… potent?”

“It’s almost the opposite. You see, it’s almost like the Veela soul… compensates, if you will. Like small dog breeds that act like their wild, strong ancestors, but are nearly harmless in reality. Even so, this small part of Veela is actually quite dangerous, but not to her. It strengthens her, as though it were a half soul, and not an eighth. Had I been full-blooded, the half soul she would have received would have laid its claim far more slowly, seeping into her mannerisms and strengths and whatnot rather than practically rebuilding them within a few hours. It’s almost like the eighth feels like it must prove its worth, prove that it’s just as valuable as a half. It’s more aggressive that way, but in all honesty, the portion of soul doesn’t matter.”

“Is the soul detached, or something? The way you talk about it is like it’s another life form.”

Fleur shrugged. “In a way, it is, in another it isn’t. It’s almost instinct, it’s almost spiritual. The soul, as we call it, it’s something that we all share as Veela. It makes us Veela. With me, the soul was always present, because I was born with it, I grew with it. The soul had to meld with Hermione’s, however. It had to be accepted by her soul in order to do so, and thus sign a contract. The Veela soul is wild and dangerous, but never to our mates nor ourselves. It build us, shapes us, strengthens us; it makes us a force not to be reckoned with and it gives our mates the same.”

Harry fell silent. Just as he’d noticed the previous school year, nothing about Hermione’s acceptance had had a negative effect. She was confident, strong, graceful; he certainly did not desire to face her in battle. Dueling her was challenge enough.


	2. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, loves! And here we go for chapter two. Little bit of sexy here, nothing terribly explicit, I'm afraid, but we will see some later on. And, perhaps, we'll have a steamy little library scene, if you and my beta can convince me to write it. Please convince me to write it xD. Anyways, I hope the waiting-two-weeks thing isn't killing you all. Honestly, I feel much better doing it this way, and it's given me lots of time to write more and pre-beta. Thank you to everyone who's left a comment and/or kudo. Your feedback truly is my driving force to continue writing, and I cannot adequately express my appreciation. Also, thank you Wolfy for beta-ing. Sorry for the spoilers. XD And also, thank you, Indie for shouting out typos as soon as you find them.  
> Much love,  
> RC

Weeks passed slowly and, for the most part, happily. Fleur was easily accepted once again into the Weasley household, assisting in whatever she could, be it cooking, cleaning, or keeping the other inhabitants entertained and out of Molly’s hair. While Fleur was at work, they’d had to entertain themselves, playing Quidditch in the orchards, and when she, Bill, and Mr. Weasley returned, they relayed terrible stories of disappearances and deaths before the newspapers could print them.

Harry’s birthday celebrations were dampened by the grisly tidings, brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who looked more disheveled than ever; his brown hair streaked with gray, his clothes ragged and patched. Upon seeing him, Fleur offered her cottage in Hogsmeade to him for a safe haven. He thanked her, and promised to consider the offer, but quickly launched into his own story.

“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” he announced as Mrs. Weasley passed him a large slice of birthday cake. “And they’ve found Igor Karkaroff’s body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it—well, frankly, I’m surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius’s brother, Regulus, only managed for a few days as far as I can remember.”

“Yes, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning. “perhaps we should talk about something different—” 

“Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?” Bill asked. “The man who ran—”

“—the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” Harry interrupted, an unpleasant, hollow feeling eating away at his stomach. “He used to give me free ice creams… What’s happened to him?”

“Dragged off, by the looks of his place.”

“Why?” Ron asked, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill.

Fleur sighed heavily. She’d warned him, earlier in the vaults. But there he went, and surely Molly would hex him if he didn’t shut it.

“Who knows?” Bill continued. “He must’ve upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean.”

“Speaking of Diagon Alley,” Mr. Weasley piped up. “Looks like Ollivander’s gone, too.”

“The wandmaker?” said Ginny, looking startled.

“That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped.”

“But wands—what’ll people do for wands?”

“They’ll make do with other makers,” Lupin said, lifting a shoulder. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have him it’s not so good for us.”

Fleur was left in quiet contemplation. The dread and fear from the beginning of summer was creeping back into her system and eating away at her. She looked between Hermione, Harry, and Ron, and steeled herself. The future was grim, but her lioness was bright, her intellect unmatched, and her courage unwavering. So long as she drew breath, so long as she stood at her side, nothing would overcome them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry’s included a surprise: He had been made Quidditch Captain.

“That gives you equal status with prefects!” Hermione cried happily. “You can use our special bathrooms now and everything!”

“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” said Ron, studying the badge with glee. “Harry, this is so cool, you’re my Captain—if you let me back on the team, I suppose, ha ha…”

“Well, I don’t suppose I can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer, now that you’ve got these,” Mrs. Weasley sighed, studying Ron’s booklist. “We’ll go on Saturday, as long as your father doesn’t have to go into work again. I’m not going there without him, even if you do accompany us, Fleur. No offense to you, of course,” she added, glancing at the Veela.

“None taken, Mrs. Weasley. Extra security measures are more than understandable at the moment.”

“Mum, d’you honestly think that You-Know-Who’s going to be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?” sniggered Ron.

“Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?” Mrs. Weasley returned heatedly. “If you think security’s a laughing matter you can stay behind and I’ll get your things myself—”

“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George’s shop!” Ron protested hastily.

“Then you just buck up your ideas, young man, before I decide you’re too immature to come with us!” Mrs. Weasley finished angrily, snatching up her clock, of which all nine hands were still pointing to “mortal peril,” and balancing it on top of a pile of just-laundered towels. “And that goes for returning to Hogwarts as well!”

Ron turned to stare at incredulously at Harry as his mother hoisted the laundry basket and the teetering clock into her arms and stormed out of the room.

“Blimey… you can’t even make a joke around here anymore…”

But Ron was very careful not to be flippant about Voldemort over the next few days. Saturday dawned without another outburst, although Mrs. Weasley seemed tense at the breakfast table.

Fleur passed a full money bag to Harry, laughing at Ron’s wide eyes. “It’s already Harry’s. The goblins have tightened security so much, it takes about five hours for the public to get a hold of their gold.”

“Yeah,” Bill jumped in. “Two days ago, Arkie Philpott had a Probity Probe stuck up his… well, trust us, it’s easier this way.”

Fleur nodded with a lift of her eyebrows. “I’m glad I was dealing with the curses that day. Just the words ‘Probity Probe’ makes the word ‘curse’ sound far more attractive.”

“Thanks, Fleur,” Harry murmured, pocketing the money bag.

“It should be enough for your things and a little extra. If I miscalculated, I’ll be happy to compensate.”

Harry nodded and thanked her again.

When they set foot outside the house, they were greeted by an overcast, murky day. One of the special Ministry of Magic cars, in which Harry had only ridden once before, was waiting for them in the front yard.

“It’s good dad can get us these again,” said Ron, appreciatively stretching luxuriously as the car moved smoothly away from the Burrow. He, Ginny, Harry, Hermione, and Fleur were all sitting in the roomy comfort of the wide backseat.

“Don’t get used to it, it’s only because of Harry,” Mr. Weasley said over his shoulder from the front passenger seat, which had obligingly stretched into what resembled a two-seater sofa, with Mrs. Weasley. “He’s been given top-grade security status. And we’ll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”

Harry said nothing and turned to the window. His distaste for the attention and special treatment he received was thick in the air. Fleur shifted in her seat and pressed her forehead to the window. The tense air did nothing to soothe her motion-sickness, which apparently was still a problem despite all her time in the air with Shamin. Hermione snuggled firmly against her side and held her hand, and murmured softly to her to combat the throbbing in her head.

“Here you are, then,” the driver said, a surprisingly short time later. “I’m to wait for you, any idea how long you’ll be?”

“A couple of hours, I expect,” Mr. Weasley returned. “Ah, good, he’s here!”

Hermione peered out the window in the direction Mr. Weasley did, and was greeted by the gigantic form of Rubeus Hagrid. He boomed each of their names respectively as they climbed from the car, and hugged each in turn. He babbled on about Witherwings—or Buckbeak—and inquired of Shamin. Fleur, after taking a few breaths of fresh air, happily reported the Horntail’s health and joy, as well as the growth of the babies. Hermione told him about Alkaia, and how they’d flown together over the mountains, all of which the giant was overjoyed to hear.

“We certainly didn’t know ‘security’ meant you!” Harry laughed a few minutes later.

“I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, but Dumbledore said I’d do,” Hagrid said proudly, throwing his chest out. “Let’s get goin’ then—after yeh, Molly, Arthur—”

The Leaky Cauldron was completely empty, unlike anything Fleur had seen. Only Tom the landlord, wizened and toothless remained. He looked up hopefully as they entered, even pulled Fleur’s favored bottle from the shelf, but both the giant and the Veela shook their heads.

“Jus’ passin’ through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts business, yeh know.”

Tom looked hopefully at Fleur.

“Monday after work, mon ami. Merci.”

The old man nodded sadly and returned the bottle. The group continued out to the little courtyard where the dustbins stood, Hagrid rapped a certain pattern against the bricks, and a portal opened obediently to admit them to the cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Where before the street had boasted colorful window displays of shop’s wares, now were blocked by Ministry posters that had been pasted over them. Most of the somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had popped up along the street.

The nearest one, which had been erected outside of Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:

**Amulets**

**Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi**

A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby.

“One for your little girl, madam?” he called at Mrs. Weasley as they passed, leering at Ginny. “Protect her pretty neck?”

“If I were on duty…” said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller.

“Yes, but don’t go arresting anyone now, dear, we’re in a hurry,” Mrs. Weasley returned, nervously consulting a list. “I think we’d better do Madam Malkin’s first, Ron’s showing too much ankle in his school robes, and Harry and Hermione both have grown so much—come on, everyone—”

“Molly, it doesn’t make sense for all of us to go to Madan Malkin’s,” said Mr. Weasley. “Why don’t those three go with Hagrid and Fleur, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone’s schoolbooks?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly torn between the desire to stay together and to get the shopping done quickly. “Hagrid, Fleur, do you think—”

“Don’ fret, Molly, we’ll be fine,” Hagrid said, waving a large hand. “Fleur’s a Phoenix, too, yeh know, and a damn good duelist.”

Molly looked between them all again, before she allowed the separation and hurried off with Mr. Weasley and Ginny. Hermione noticed at once that many of the people that passed by them had the same harried, anxious look as Mrs. Weasley, and that nobody stopped to talk anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.

“Might be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside of Madam Malkin’s. “I’ll stand guard outside, all right?”

So, the other four went into the shop together. At first glance, it appeared to be empty, but no sooner than the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue.

“…not a child in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping _alone.”_

There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, “Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it’s nothing to do with being a child—”

“Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!”

A teenage boy with a pale pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few minutes before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed.

“If you’re wondering what that smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco.

“And a quarter-breed, around which you’d be wise to watch your tongue.” Fleur snarled, stepping into the reflection. Color drained from Draco’s face upon seeing her.

“I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. “And I don’t want any wands drawn in my shop either!” she added hastily, as she saw Draco reach for his. Hermione’s was already held securely in long, slender fingers.

“Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,” Draco sneered.

“I can, and she would indeed dare.” Fleur said softly, and lowered Hermione’s wand herself. “But I wouldn’t waste my magic on fickle children.”

“Filthy half-breed,” Draco sneered.

“Still harboring hard feelings after I escorted your daddy to Azkaban?” Fleur returned. “Kingsley Shacklebolt himself invited me along. He was far too happy to allow me the pleasure of closing the gate and losing the key.”

“That is quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam—please—”

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack. “Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron, whose wands were still held at the ready before she turned her eyes to Fleur. “If you ever attack my son again, I will ensure it is the last thing you ever do.”

“I have not lifted a finger towards your son since the last time he insulted Hermione Granger. Should he do so again, he’ll face more than myself alone, more than you or a gang of Death Eaters could possibly handle.” Fleur returned softly, her voice cold. She stared Narcissa in the eye, cobalt narrowed to a sliver, until the other woman looked away first.

“Really, you shouldn’t accuse—dangerous thing to say—wands _away_ please!” Madam Malkin squealed, clutching her chest.

None of the Gryffindors returned their wands. Fleur did not back down. Hermione took her side.

“You think the Veela can protect you?” Narcissa asked. “You think they stand a chance?”

“We do.” Hermione growled as she took a step forward. She was now a full inch taller than the Slytherin mother before her. “Our magic is of another species. It is ancient and sacred and Dark magic cannot destroy it.”

“Our?” Draco laughed. “You mated with the half-breed?” Without taking her eyes off Narcissa, Fleur’s hand whipped out suddenly and clenched into a fist, and Draco’s mouth could not produce any sound, despite his obvious attempts.

“What have you done to him?” Narcissa demanded as she abandoned her staring match with Fleur to examine Draco with worry.

“I’ve silenced him. The next time he calls me a half-breed, I’ll take his whole tongue rather than his voice alone.”

Hermione remained silently impressed. Wordless magic was very possible; she’d been hit by a silent spell herself. But wandless? Sent from a hand, to a target with such accuracy? With such strength? She’d never heard of such a thing.

Narcissa looked at Fleur, to her empty hand, tried a countercurse to restore Draco’s speech, and failed. She tried another to no avail. Finally, she turned wide eyes to Fleur, and took a step back. Madam Malkin floundered for a moment, trying to decide which course of action was best to take, and seemed to decide that to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn’t as she set to fussing with Draco’s robes again.

“Give his voice back to him.” Narcissa said quietly, submissively, weary of the elliptical pupils in Fleur’s eyes. “My family and I will leave you and your mate be.” Draco made a shocked face behind her, and waved his arms in protest. Narcissa failed to notice as she kept her eyes trained on the Veela.

“As well as the Weasleys, the Granger family and Harry Potter.” Fleur conditioned, her stare unwavering.

“If that is what you wish.” Narcissa agreed.

“I do.”

“So be it.”

Fleur waved her hand again, and Draco began spewing half-coherent words. Narcissa took the robes from his body and folded them neatly on a chair, and left the shop with him protesting the whole time.

“Madam Malkin,” Fleur said, meeting the shopkeeper’s eye with the softest expression she’d given so far. “I would like to reimburse you for the sales you’ve just lost.”

The tailor looked surprised, and readily took the gold Fleur offered before she set to fitting the other three Gryffindors for robes. When their purchases were made, Hermione firmly tucked herself under Fleur’s arm, pleased to see her pupils were circular again.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she said softly.

“Of course I did,” the Veela replied, tightening her arm.

“But silent, _wandless_ magic?! Fleur, I had no idea you could do that…”

The Veela lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t either.”

They rejoined Hagrid outside the shop, and just as they did, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.

“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George’s—stick close, now…”

Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients from the Apothecary while Hermione and Fleur loaded up, but they did buy large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Then, as one large mass of bodies, they made their way to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.

Upon squeezing their way into the shop, Fleur concurred it was about as busy as her family’s home during Christmas. From floor to ceiling, boxes bearing all sorts of magical devices and sweets, each display table boasted its own crowd of spellbound buyers. The Skiving Snackboxes that were perfected last year were a definite hit, a single battered box of Nosebleed Nougat was left on the shelf. There were bins of trick wands and boxes of cheat quills, available in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds played a game of Reusable Hangman, watching as a small wooden man made his way back up to a real set of gallows.

Hermione forced her way through a throng of customers, and began reading the label of a box with the title of “Patented Daydream Charms.”

“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.’ You know,” she said, glancing at Fleur. “This really is extraordinary magic!”

“For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them. “You can have one for free.” A beaming Fred stood behind them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed beautifully with his flaming hair. “How are you both?”

“We’re great,” Fleur replied happily, squeezing Hermione gently. “Couldn’t be better, under the circumstances. And you?”

Fred gestured around the store. “Business is booming! It seems like people need a good laugh these days, and George and I are happy to assist them on their way. Go grab Harry and Ron, I’ll give you a tour,”

The lioness waved the two boys over, and they followed the wizard into a back room, which was darker and far less crowded than the storefront. George was there, apparently checking inventory.

“Hello, all!” He said happily, tipping his hat to Fleur and Hermione and shaking Harry’s hand. “Giving them the tour?”

“Of course.” Fred returned before turning his attention back to the group. “We’ve just started a more serious line. Funny how it happened…”

“You wouldn’t believe how many people, even Ministry people, can’t do a decent Shield Charm,” George said. “’Course, they didn’t have you teaching them, Harry.”

“That’s right… Well, we thought Shield Hats were a bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx you while you were wearing it and watch his face when it just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five hundred for all its support staff! And we’re still getting massive orders!”

“So we’ve expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, Shield Gloves…”

“…I mean, they wouldn’t help much against Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate jinxes or hexes…”

“And then we thought we’d get into the whole area of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it’s such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “Look at this. Instant Darkness Powder, we’re importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”

“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-type objects that were indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just drop one surreptitiously and it’ll run off and make a nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if you need one.”

“Handy,” Fleur said appreciatively.

“Here,” said George, scooping a few up and chucking them at Harry.

A young blonde witch poked her head around the curtain; she was also wearing magenta staff robes.

“There’s a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.

It was odd to head the twins addressed as ‘Mr. Weasley,’ but they took it in stride.

“Right you are, Verity, I’m coming,” said George promptly. “Help yourself to anything you like, Harry. No charge.”

“I can’t do that!” said Harry, his money bag out to pay for the decoys.

“You don’t pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry’s gold.

“But—”

“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven’t forgotten,” said George sternly.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, looking at the wizard in question. “It was the Triwizard winnings, wasn’t it?”

“How did you know?” he asked, shocked.

“You never wanted it. Then when the twins popped up with enough money to start a business, I had my guesses.”

“Good thought, Granger,” George said with a chuckle before looking back at Harry. “Take anything you like, just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.” With that, George swept from the room and went to help the customer Verity had told him about.

Fred showed them a few more items in the back, before they went back to the storefront, and rejoined Ginny, who was engrossed with the Pygmy Puffs. After a rude hand gesture from Ron to Fred over the lack of a ‘brotherly discount,’ Mrs. Weasley swooped in and promised that she’d jinx all his fingers together if she saw the gesture again.

“Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?” Ginny asked, distracting her from Ron.

“A what?”

“Look, they’re so sweet…”

Upon seeing the small bundles of pink and purple fluff, the Weasley matriarch squeezed between Harry and Hermione for further investigation. With the space made, the three Gryffindors were provided with a clear view of Draco Malfoy hurrying down the street alone. As he passed the twins’ shop, he cast a glance over his shoulder hastily, and escaped the scope of the shop window.

“Wonder where his mummy is?” Harry asked softly.

Fleur’s attention snapped to Ron as he said, “Given her the slip, by the looks of it.”

“But why?”

“Narcissa Malfoy wouldn’t willingly allow him to go anywhere by himself,” Fleur offered quietly. “Every time she’s in Gringotts, she talks about how he’s everything she breathes for. He must have made a real effort to get away.”

Hermione glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were still bent over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was happily examining some sort of Muggle magic. Fred and George were swarmed with customers. “Let’s go.” She whispered.

“Hermione, you can’t be—” Fleur began. But Harry had already pulled his Invisibility Cloak around the three of them. “Damn it, Hermione, if I have to press my nose to floor and follow you like a dog I’ll do it!” she hissed. A low click sounded from her left. She took a step towards it. Another click suggested she take another. “Mother of gods. Now you’re clicking at me like a bloody dog.” The answering sound was louder, and spurred her on faster.

“Molly, I’m going to grab a coffee, would you like anything?” The woman in question waved her away without looking. She growled lowly and followed Hermione’s clicks.

She tried to walk casually, her hands tucked into her pockets, strolling along the street as though the Dark Lord hadn’t returned from the dead. When she thought of it that way, her current stride certainly wasn’t appropriate for the time. So she hastened, hunching her shoulders forward as she strained to hear footfalls or clicks.

“He was going in that direction,” came the muffled whisper of Harry. A rock suddenly rolled aside. The Veela followed it.

Hermione guided her with a few more clicks and then they turned down Knockturn Alley, and Fleur’s stomach dropped.

“You’d all better remain invisible.” She growled. “Wands out.” She let her own wand drop further down her sleeve as she spoke. The tip of the rosewood wand pressed into her palm, warming under her touch. It comforted her, although now that she’d summoned her magic without it, she was tempted to try again. _Now’s not the time._ She thought darkly, and tightened her fist.

The alley devoted to Dark Arts was completely deserted, more so than Diagon. It unnerved the blonde, and she found herself shushing Hermione’s clicks of guidance. Their footfalls now pounded against her temples; had they never walked on their toes before? Or stalked prey? Granted, this was slightly different than hunting, but the rules were the same. Without the necessity of death. Or arrows.

“There he is!” Hermione hissed as quietly as she could. Fleur had already seen. Draco had just slipped into Borgin and Burkes, and had his back turned to them all. Presently, after a few swears rang loud in Fleur’s ear, a flesh-colored string dropped to the bottom of the door.

Hermione clicked again. Fleur changed her course to go left and was met with her voice.

“We can’t hear, could you open the door for us?”

Fleur growled and pulled out a piece of paper from her coat pocket, as if she were checking the address. “The things I’ll do for you, woman. Do. Not. Move.”

Hermione did not offer a response. Fleur pulled her shoulders back, and entered the shop. She was careful to drag her foot over the threshold, made a show of wiping her shoes, and charmed the ear invisible just under the crack.

“Welcome to Borgin and Burkes,” the shop keep grunted.

“Hello there,” she returned. She saw Malfoy duck behind a shelf to hide himself, but not before she saw the object of his attention. A large, handsome black cabinet. She shrugged it off. The other three would focus on that. She’d played her part, and now had to come up with some reason as to why she’d entered.

“Where would your alchemy section be located?” she asked politely. “I find myself in need of a few extra beakers and a Bunsen burner.”

The shopkeeper eyed her before jutting a thumb in a general direction. The blonde thanked him, and slipped off to the section. She already knew where it was, of course, she’d come last Christmas, but Kingsley was grooming her to be a good Auror, undetected and unsuspicious despite the presence of enemies. 

She busied herself for a moment before she selected the wares she desired, paid for them, and left the store. A soft chirp praised her as she passed. “Good.” She muttered, barely moving her lips. “I’m going to act as though I have another things to do. Should you need me, Hermione, use the Veela spell I taught you.” The spell, comfortably learned but largely unpracticed, manipulated the weather; a single roll of thunder served as a communication device, even if there was no hint of a storm. And, being purely Veela, was unpunishable by the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione clicked again, and Fleur continued, her stride unbroken. She turned back to Diagon Alley, where she purchased a latte and sat outside the shop, waiting for either Hermione’s return or unexpected thunder.

The thunder never came, but Hermione herself beckoned Fleur from the Weasley’s joke shop, a clear view from the café. She pointed at her cup with an arched eyebrow. Hermione shrugged and nodded.

After purchasing another latte, Fleur made her way back to the shop.

“There you are!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed upon seeing her. “Line couldn’t have been that long?”

“A friend saw me there,” Fleur covered. It wasn’t a lie; a fellow Beauxbaton graduate had in fact said hello, but the word ‘friend’ was indeed questionable. She handed the other paper cup to the lioness, who took it gratefully.

Hermione gripped her hand as they left the store and settled in for the car ride home. Harry’s complexion seemed paler, and Ron seemed unable to hold whatever they’d discovered in. The three of them managed however, and the first moment they alone, a few days later, burst the story to Fleur.

“He was really focused on making for damn sure Borgin didn’t sell the cabinet he was interested it,” Harry gushed. “And he was treated with as much respect as his father, even though Borgin looked incredibly worried when he left. He mentioned Fenrir Greyback. Have you any idea who that is?” Harry said, glancing at the blonde.

Fleur’s blood ran cold, thick in her veins. “Mother of gods…”

“What? What is it?” Hermione asked.

“I…” she hesitated. “I can’t tell you much, the Order wants it under wraps. But Greyback is someone to be avoided at all costs, and if the Malfoys have him in their back pocket… Borgin would be a smart man to keep his promise.”

“He did seem overwhelmingly eager to agree to his terms…” Harry murmured.

“Anyone would be, take my word,” Fleur urged.

“What do you think?” Harry asked.

The Veela considered silently. “I think it’s something worth keeping an eye on.”

“I think it’s more than that…” Harry murmured. “His father’s in prison, perhaps he wants revenge?”

“But how could he get it, Harry?” Ron asked, scraping dirt off his broomstick.

“That’s the point! I don’t know! But he’s up to something, and I think we should take it seriously. His father’s a Death Eater and—” suddenly his eyes fixed on a point over Ron’s shoulder, his mouth hanging open.

“Harry?” Hermione asked confused.

“He’s a Death Eater.” Harry said simply. “He’s replaced his father as a Death Eater!”

The other three were silent. Then Ron coughed a laugh.

“Honestly, Harry? You think You-Know-Who would let a sixteen-year-old join?”

“That does seem unlikely, Harry,” Fleur murmured.

“But he showed Borgin something we couldn’t see, something on his arm, and it scared him enough into agreeing to whatever it was that Malfoy wanted! He’s been branded with the Dark Mark!”

Fleur considered quietly, looking away at a fixed point out the window, but no one offered a comment. Agitated, Harry scooped up filthy Quidditch robes off the floor, and left the room.

Hermione sighed. “Well?”

“I’d watch carefully. Tread carefully. I’ll do some snooping with the Order, see what I can dig up. It’s unlikely, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

Hermione sighed, and studied the window. “Come on, love. Let’s go watch the sunset one last time before school,” she rose to her feet and Fleur followed, tucking a well-worn quilt under her arm as she left the house. Hermione continued to lead her to a favorite spot, secluded and hidden from the house, but open to sky.

Fleur spread the blanket out and lay down, the hill sloped just right to give the feeling of reclining to watch the sun. Hermione joined her, and tucked in close. The sun began its descent, light clinging to the canvas, reluctant to vanish.  

Blues and purples began to crawl into pinks and oranges, wisps of clouds were painted brilliantly as they tucked the sun away into its bed of horizon. Even after the sun had been put away, the color remained, and slowly softened into the cooler colors of night. The stars crept out to shine, shyly at first, then with more luminance. Fireflies began blinking against the dark outline of the trees, and crickets took up song.

Fleur flicked her wand, and a shield rose around them, unyielding to curious, biting insects. Hermione snuggled closer, and sighed against her.

“Perhaps I’ll get to see you more this year,” she murmured. “Dumbledore’s never minded your presence at Hogwarts,”

Fleur chuckled softly. “Dumbledore’s already stationed several Aurors around Hogsmeade, mostly for Harry’s protection. I’m a resident already, so I’m sure we will be seeing more of each other.”

“That’ll be nice, having my big, strong Veela there to protect me,” Hermione giggled. Even though it was a small compliment, a jest really, Fleur’s ego swelled at the prospect, and she tightened her arms around Hermione.

“You’re nearly as big as I am now, love, and I’ve seen you fighting. I believe you can take care of yourself,” she chuckled. “But I’ll be happy to protect you anyway.”

Hermione stretched up and pressed a long kiss to her lips. “Thank you, Fleur.”

The Veela looked at her questioningly.

“Earlier, I didn’t think I’d get my Fleur back. And I’ve had her for about two months. She’s smiled, and laughed, and even made love to me, despite what the world has going on,” she chuckled softly.

Fleur nuzzled her. “You are my world, and quite frankly, that’s all that matters.” She pressed her lips to Hermione’s again, prodding her lips apart. Her lover complied happily, and allowed her hands to roam over Fleur’s shoulders, through her hair, down her back. Her breathing was hot against Fleur’s skin, her chest pressed to her own. Fleur ran her mouth over the soft skin of her neck, her fingers deftly unbuttoning her shirt. The cold air surprised Hermione, caressing her skin just as Fleur did; gooseflesh rose in response.

“Wouldn’t you rather go inside?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Fleur growled into her ear. She chose the next moment to draw Hermione’s earlobe into her mouth, dragging her teeth over it. She arched under her, any coherent thought fleeing as the Veela growled lowly, the sound vibrating in her cochlea. Her fingers clutched Fleur’s shoulders, her hips lifted in eager anticipation, and she was rewarded as Fleur allowed her to grind against her thigh. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her yearn for the blonde, beg for her, and soon she got her wish.

Under the stars, Fleur took her, filled her, and swallowed her moans and screams of pleasure as her hand worked between her legs. She longed to taste her, but Hermione was reluctant to allow her leave. When climax hit, she abandoned her post and took her again, her tongue expertly bringing her to orgasm again before the first had completely died away. Hermione was starving for her, unwilling to pass up any pleasure offered to her. She kept thrusting herself against the Veela, panting, moaning, animalistic as she found release again, and again, and again on Fleur’s mouth and fingers. She writhed beneath the stars, her hands tangled in blonde locks, desperate to remember every detail she could about her hands and her mouth and the sounds she made against her.

When her muscles failed, Fleur returned to her side. The lioness was still breathing heavy, her hair stuck to her forehead in some places, but a wide smile graced her lips. She was so spent, she could hardly reciprocate kisses with movements, only sounds of appreciation, enjoyment, and adoration. Fleur chuckled at her, and dressed her again before she pulled her into her arms and stood. A flick of her wand brought the quilt in after them as the Veela carefully made her way back inside, murmuring that Hermione had fallen asleep while they were stargazing.

Mrs. Weasley looked only half-convinced but left any other thought silent.

Finally tucked away in their shared bed, Hermione sleepily insisted on giving pleasure back. Fleur refused, and promised she’d get her release next time. The lioness pouted for several long minutes before sleep overtook her, and the pouting face slipped away into that of peaceful sleep.


	3. The New Potions Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dearest loves! I am sad to report that this will be the last you hear from me for a while, for I will leave in thirteen days for Oklahoma. I leave you in the care of my dear friend, faewolfxvi, who, I trust, will keep you up to date on the chapters, as well as beta-ing chapters. I extend the warmest of goodbyes to you all, and wish you the best of luck until I return. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I look forward to hearing from you all in December. Be safe, and know that I greatly appreciate your reading, comments, kudos, and just general participation in the story/fandom. Till December, my lovelies, be safe and ship on.   
> Much love,   
> RC

Upon departure from King’s Cross, Harry was left with an unpleasant, sick feeling in his stomach. He’d confided his belief and worry of Draco Malfoy’s appointment as a Death Eater to Mr. Weasley, who did not share his concern. Hermione felt emptiness fill her chest as she watched Fleur disappear into the crowd, and silently chided herself for being so naïve. It was a new year with new possibilities. Umbridge was gone, Fleur was an Order member, and Dumbledore had them posted around Hogwarts, if not inside the castle. She would see her again soon.

Hermione performed her duties as a Prefect with purpose, desperate to escape into the delicate, natural rhythms of concentration. She made her rounds effortlessly, answered questions from the first years, and said hello to old friends. The members of the D.A. welcomed her warmly, and inquired of Fleur, a few asked her about a spot on her neck. With a chuckle, she found that the Veela had left a mark the night before, small, and almost dainty, but a mark that clearly stated that she was hers. She brushed her hair back to better show it, and continued fulfilling her duties until she was relieved to join Neville, Luna, and Harry in a compartment near the back.

“Hello Luna, Neville,” Hermione said brightly as she took her seat.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna returned dreamily. “We might need to concoct a potion to rid Harry of the Wrackspurts; they’re swarming him. I think it’s best you be careful.” She swatted at the air with her hands, an annoyed expression sat gloomily behind large, red spectacles.

“I’ll get right on that…” Hermione said with a quirked brow.

“Harry, guess what?” Ron said excitedly, after greeting the other two. “Malfoy’s not doing prefect duty. He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”

Harry sat up straight, interest clouding his features.

“What did he do when he saw you?”

“The usual,” Ron returned indifferently, demonstrating the same rude hand gesture his mother had condemned. “Not like him though, is it? Well, _that_ is, but why isn’t he out there bullying first years?”

“Dunno,” said Harry, his mind racing.

“I think he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad.” Hermione offered. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after all that,”

“I don’t think so, I think he’s—”

But before he could finish, the compartment door slid open to admit a breathless third-year girl. She stepped inside, almost trembling, and said, “I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she managed, her face flushing as she glanced at Harry. She was holding out two scrolls of parchment to them both, tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took their scrolls, and the girl all but ran from the compartment.

“What is it?” Ron demanded.

“It’s an invitation,” Harry murmured, then read the note aloud. _“Harry, I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor H.E.F. Slughorn_

_P.S._

_Give my apologies to your friend Hermione Granger. I do intend to chat with her soon, but the compartment only has room for so many.”_

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” Neville asked after reading his own invitation.

“He’s a new teacher,” Harry answered. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to go, won’t we?”

The two conceded, and soon left the compartment, Harry under his cloak, desperate to catch Malfoy in the act of doing something related to Death Eaters. Hermione sighed heavily.

“I don’t think he’ll ever be unsuspicious.” She murmured.

“I doubt it,” Ron agreed. “Wonder what Slughorn wants?”

“No idea,” the lioness returned, resting her head against the window. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

 

A few hours later, Harry had not returned to the compartment, and the outline of the castle could be seen against the darkening sky. After changing into school robes, Hermione made her way around the train in search of him, but to no avail. With a grumble, she took his trunk along with her own and got off the train, and caught a glimpse Tonks hiding in the shadow of an awning. She gave a casual wave, and a smile as she boarded a carriage pulled by thestrals, Tonks’ usual flare absent as she returned her gestures. She caught a glimpse of Fleur outside a shop, watching as they passed. Hermione blew her a kiss, and sent her Patronus to answer the questioning look that asked, _Where is Harry?_

Fleur dismissed the Patronus and nodded once, rising from her seat. Hermione turned her thoughts away, and reassured herself that Fleur would take care of any trouble that came. From between the breaks in the trees, she could see the moonlight glinting off the saltwater inlet that guarded the very furthest reaches of the campus grounds. According to _Hogwarts, a History,_ the whole of the land lined by sea was the Forbidden Forest, so dense and dangerous, she, nor any other, had ever had the pleasure of visiting the ocean while at school. The closest one could get was small, silver ribbons of jagged water that stretched out to reach them in greeting. She wondered idly if Fleur had ever reached the sea during her training for the Triwizard. Perhaps that was where her infatuation for the poem _Annabel Lee_ had stemmed.

Fleur watched as the lioness passed by her in the carriage, every sense sharp and alert. She sent her own Patronus to Tonks, who in turn boarded the Express herself, and sure enough emerged, escorting Harry to the castle herself, her expression drawn and blank. The Veela fell into step beside her, silent in the shadows.

“Everything all right, Tonks? Harry?” she asked softly.

Tonks nodded. “Yep, everything’s taken care of. Nothing to worry over, Veela.”

“Fleur, has Dumbledore got you involved, too?” asked Harry.

“He has, I’m sorry to report. There are Aurors posted all over Hogsmeade for the protection of the school.”

Harry nodded solemnly, and Fleur continued to walk with them to the gates of Hogwarts, where Professor Snape waited for Harry.

“Well, well, well,” Snape sneered at Harry as he unlocked the gate with a tap of his wand. “Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.”

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my—”

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Fleur, Potter is quite—ah—safe in my hands.”

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning.

“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” said Snape, standing back to allow Harry passage. “I was interested to see your new Patronus.”

He shut the gates in her face with a loud bang and locked them again. Fleur glanced at Tonks, who’d fixed Snape in her gaze.

“I think you were better off with the old one,” Snape continued, the malice in his voice clear. “The new one looks weak.”

Tonks turned on her heel and strode away. Fleur traded a glance with Harry, before she turned and followed the other witch. Harry called out a farewell and thanks, but Tonks gave no indication of having heard him.

“Your Patronus changed?” Fleur asked softly.

Tonks nodded once.

“Who?” the Veela breathed, even softer.

Tonks sucked in a deep breath and stopped in her tracks, her eyes shining with distress. “Remus.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 When Harry finally arrived in the Great Hall, the first thing Hermione smelled was the sharp, rusty scent of blood. When he sat down beside her, she could smell Fleur’s presence, as she siphoned the dried blood off his face and clothes.

“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face. “How’s my nose looking?”

“Normal,” Hermione answered anxiously. “Why wouldn’t it? Harry, what happened?”

“I’ll have to tell you later,” Harry returned, glancing around at all the ears leaning in towards them.

“So what did Slughorn want on the train?” Ron asked when Harry reached for a few chicken legs, which vanished and replaced by desserts.

“To know what really happened at the Ministry,” said Harry, opting for a treacle tart instead.

“Him and everyone else here.” Hermione sniffed. “People were interrogating us on the train, weren’t they, Ron?”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “All of them wanted to know if you really are ‘the Chosen One—’”

“There has been much talk on that very subject, even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, popping up from the center of the table, who inclined his head towards Harry dangerously. “I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows he can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told them. ‘I would rather die than betray his trust.’”

“That’s not saying much, seeing as you’re already dead,” Ron observed.

“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe.” Said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter in the hall died away instantly.

“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.

“What happened to his hand?” Hermione asked in a hushed voice. She was not the only one who noticed. Dumbledore’s right hand was blackened and dead looking, so shriveled and frail, it seemed impossible of doing anything more than holding a quill. Other students began whispering, and Dumbledore, interpreting the whispers correctly, merely smiled and pulled his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now, to our new students, welcome, and to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you…”

“His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought he’d have cured it by now, though… or Madam Pomfrey would’ve done.”

“It looks as if it’s died…” the lioness murmured, a look of both utter concern and disgust warring on her features. “But there are some injuries you can’t cure… old curses… and there are poisons without antidotes….”

Dumbledore continued rattling off most of the same speech he gave every year; announcing Filch’s ban on all goods from the twins’ shop and the sign-up sheets for Quidditch teams or commentators, along with other school functions yet unknown to the first years.

“Finally, we are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn—” Slughorn stood, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big, waistcoated belly cast the table below into shadow—“is a former colleague of mine who had agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

_“Potions?”_

The word echoed around the Hall as students processed them. The first years looked around at the older students, trying to comprehend what exactly was the issue. Others looked at Snape to Slughorn and back again.

“Potions?” Hermione whispered. “But, he can’t mean—”

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” Dumbledore continued, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering. “will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction.

“But Harry, didn’t you say that Slug—” Ron began.

“I thought he was!” Harry interrupted, still staring up at the staff table. “Well, there’s one good thing. Snape’ll be gone by the end of the year.”

“What do you mean?”

“The job’s jinxed. No one’s lasted more than a year. Quirrell actually died doing it… Personally, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed for another death.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, loudly. “Some things are better left unspoken.”

“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” Ron reasoned. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stick around long-term. Moody didn’t.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The whole Hall had erupted with noise over the news, and Dumbledore achieved their attention again with incredible ease. He said nothing more of staff appointments, but did have an announcement that cause most of the hearts to skip beats.

“Now, as everyone in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.” Hermione, Harry, and Draco were the only ones in the room who didn’t shudder. “I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle’s fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student of members of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that your teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them—in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others’ safety.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more.

“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!”

With the usual deafening scrape of benches against flagstone, the hundreds of students filed out of the Great Hall and towards their dormitories. Hermione rose and began her prefect’s duty of shepherding first years to the proper direction and did not get a chance to hear properly what had held Harry up on the train earlier that evening.    

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The next morning, Harry wasted no time in relaying what he’d overhead Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express while tucked away beneath his Invisibility Cloak in the luggage compartment.

“He said he might have ‘bigger and better things to move on to,’ and when Parkinson asked, without really saying, if he was talking about Voldemort, he just shrugged and said something about his mother wanting him to complete his education, but how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s someone’s got won’t make a difference, only the kind of service he received or the level of devotion he was shown.”

“But he can’t possibly be qualified,” Hermione whispered, while Ron barked at a first year who’d been pointing at Harry.

“He said something about that, too,” Harry continued. “He made it seem like Voldemort wouldn’t care that he’s not qualified, and about the job he has isn’t something he needs to be qualified for.”

“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn’t he?” Ron interjected.

“It could be a ploy, but that’s a big lie to tell…” Hermione murmured. “We’ll have to keep a look out,”

They ended their already hushed conversation as they joined the queue to exit through the portrait hole, and an unmistakable snarling sound registered in Hermione’s ear from her right.

“I don’t think so, they’ve been banned.” she said loudly, and held out her arm to stop a third year. Sure enough, a lime-green Fanged Frisbee was tucked under his arm. Ron tried to take it from her, and was rewarded with a sharp blow to the head with it.

“They’ve been banned, Ron. Try to act like a prefect,” she said in an exasperated voice.

“But, you helped Fred and George last year!” he protested. “All those fireworks and—”   

“Umbridge was here last year, wasn’t she? I had a reason to act out.” Ron huffed, and fell silent.

“I think he deserves a break, Hermione,” another voice piped up. Lavender Brown passed by the trio and sent a smile at Ron, who straightened his back and held out his chest. Lavender giggled, and gave him a little wave before she disappeared into the crowd. 

Upon arriving in the Great Hall and taking their seats, Harry told her about his and Ron’s embarrassing conversation with Hagrid the night before.

“So he still thinks that we’re all taking Care of Magical Creatures?” she asked. “But why? I mean, when have  we ever expressed genuine enthusiasm?”

“That’s it though, innit?” said Ron, swallowing an entire fried egg whole. “We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But he thinks we like the stupid _subject_. D’you reckon anyone’s going to go on to N.E.W.T.?”

Neither Hermione nor Harry answered; there was no need. They both knew perfectly well that no one in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They avoided his gaze, and only halfheartedly returned his cheery wave.

They waited until McGonagall stood to leave their places. With their O.W.L. papers in hand, they approached the witch to see if they’d made the proper grades in order to continue the classes they wished.

Harry, much to his relief, was cleared to continue taking Potions, since Slughorn was perfectly happy to take a N.E.W.T. student who’d scored an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ O.W.L. With his ambition to become an Auror restored, he chased after Hermione to take Charms and compare schedules. During their empty period after Charms, Hermione dug into her books, snuggled firmly into an armchair near the window. Ron and Harry had come to expect nothing less from her over the years, but her behavior the previous year had raised some hope in them. It was to no avail, of course, for when the bell tolled, she pulled herself reluctantly from its pages, and stowed it away.

Together, the three of them made their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Snape spoke of Dark magic as though it were a mysterious lover. He showed pictures of the damage dealt by the Cruciatus Curse, the Dementor’s Kiss, and the wrath of the Inferius.

“Because of the aggressive, unpredictable nature of these types of Dark magic, I believe that the best defense against them is the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of using nonverbal spells?”

Hermione’s hand shot in the air.

Snape cast his gaze around the room, making sure he had no other option. Finally, he gave in.

“Very well—Miss Granger?”

“Your adversary had no warning about what kind of magic you’re about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage.”

“An answer copied almost verbatim from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,_ but correct in essentials.” Snape said dismissively. “Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some”—he threw a glance at Harry—“lack. You will divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other _without speaking_ while the other will attempt to repel the jinx with _equal silence._ Carry on.”

The boys turned to one another, leaving Hermione to find a partner by herself. Predictably, Neville was left alone, despite his growth in the D.A. the previous year. The lioness was happy to pair with him, and within ten minutes, successfully defended herself with a silently cast Shield Charm. Nearly everyone else in the room was cheating, whispering the jinxes and charms rather than belting them, but her own success was ignored by Snape. She shrugged it off, and coached Neville with a gentle voice.

“Pathetic, Weasley.” Snape said from behind her. She turned to watch, just as most of the class had done. “Here—let me show you—”

He turned his wand to Harry so fast, any thought of nonverbal spells eluded him and he cried out, _“Protego!”_

The shield that leaped from his wand was so strong, Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. He righted himself with a scowl.

“Do you remember me telling you that we are practicing _nonverbal_ spells, Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry returned stiffly.

“Yes, _sir.”_

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”

His face paled as he realized the words falling out of his mouth. Several people gasped, a few others sent him hidden grins of appreciation.

“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even _‘the Chosen One.’”_

 

 

“That was brilliant!” Ron yelled, as soon as they were a safe distance away on their way to break.

“What made you say that, Harry?”

“He tried to jinx me!” fumed Harry. “I had enough of it last year during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn’t he use another guinea pig for a change? And what is Dumbledore playing at, letting him teach Defense Against the Dark Arts? He loves them!”

“Well,” Hermione murmured. “I thought he sounded a bit like you.”

“Like _me?”_

“Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn’t just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts—well, wasn’t that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”

Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as _The Standard Book of Spells_ that he did not argue.

Someone called Harry’s name. The caller, Jack Sloper, had been a Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team the previous year, after Fred and George had been banned. He had a roll of parchment in hand, and was hurrying toward Harry.

“For you,” he panted, ignoring Hermione and Ron. “Listen, I heard you’re the new Captain. When’re you holding trials?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Harry returned, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to find himself on the team at all. “I’ll let you know.”

Any other word he spoke was ignored by Harry. Wordlessly, he read the parchment and continued walking, Hermione and Ron keeping pace with him.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“A note from Dumbledore. He wants to start our private lessons this Saturday at eight. And, apparently, he enjoys Acid Pops.”

“Acid Pops?” Ron echoed.

“That’s the password for the gargoyle outside his door,” Hermione murmured.

“Ha!” Harry laughed. “Snape won’t be pleased… I won’t be able to make his detention!”

The rest of break, the three tried to guess what Dumbledore would be teaching Harry. At the end of break, Harry and Ron went to the Common Room for their free period, Hermione rushed off to Arithmancy. Grudgingly, Harry and Ron completed some of Snape’s homework in the time they had. It was so complex that they had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period. She helped them through, and managed to tackle her own in half the time. Just as they were closing their books, the bell rang and they made their way down from the tower for the afternoon’s double Potions.


	4. The Half Blood Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends and readers of ReginaCorda :3 I am Wolfy, aka. faewolfxvi. I have been tasked with the important mission of updating this wonderful fic since my lovely friend will be gone until December. From here on, I will try and update every two weeks like Regina asked, and will do so until she returns. If I miss an update, do forgive me, I work a full time job outside of writing and can get a bit distracted. And please excuse and typos or errors of the like, and please let me know immediately so I can fix them. I am also beta-ing this fic, but sometimes my eyes miss things that your fresh ones will pick out :). Without any more babbling from me, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter :D

 

Only about a dozen people were taking or had made a grade acceptable for N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve an acceptable O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had, one of them being Malfoy. Ernie Macmillan waved at the three and offered a greeting, but before conversation could strike up, Slughorn’s door opened, and his belly preceded him out of it. As the students filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry, Zabini, and another of the four gathered Slytherins most warmly.

The dungeon was, most unusually, already filled with vapors and odd smells. Hermione sniffed at the air with interest, and detected several particular scents, all belonging to strange potions at the front of the room.

The four Ravenclaws sat at a table together, as did the four Slytherins, which left the trio to share a table with Ernie to their delight, for they had bonded with him during the D.A. meetings.

“Now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was now quivering through the vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of  _Advanced Potion-Making…”_

“Sir?” Harry asked, raising his hand.

“Harry, m’boy?”

“I haven’t got a book, or scales or anything—nor’s Ron—we didn’t realize we’d be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—”

“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention… not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I’m sure we can lend you some scales and we’ve got a small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts…”

Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment of rummaging, emerged with two battered copies of  _Advanced Potion-Making,_ which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two tarnished scales.

“Now then,” Slughorn continued once he made his way back to the head of the class. “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of them, even if you haven’t made them yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”

He indicated the cauldron nearest to the Slytherin table, the contents appeared to be plain water boiling inside it. Hermione’s well-practiced hand hit the air before any other student could finish studying it.

“It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth.”

“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron near the Ravenclaw table. “This one is pretty well-known… featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too… Who can—”

Again, Hermione’s hand was the fastest.

“It’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said, eyeing the muddy, bubbling mess in the cauldron, the same as she’d made in second year.

“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here… yes, my dear?” Slughorn said, slightly bemused as the Gryffindor’s hand hit the air once more.

“It’s Amortentia!”

“It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”

“It’s the most powerful love potion in the world! The mother-of-pearl sheen and the characteristic steam spirals are easily recognizable. It’s supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us. For example, I can smell horses, and fire, books, and… roasted marshmallows…” she said, blushing.

“May I ask your name, my dear?”

“Hermione Granger, sir,”

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.”

“Oho!  _‘One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she’s the best of our year!’_ I’m assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”

Hermione turned to Harry, flattered.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured.

“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially. 

“I really do appreciate that,” she whispered warmly to Harry, a beaming smile on her face.

“It’s true, you know,” Ron spoke up. “You  _are_ the best in our year.”

The lioness flushed, and thanked Ron as well.

“Now, it is to be noted that Amortentia doesn’t create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding to Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love…” he trailed off, apparently lost some stupor.

“And now,” Slughorn continued, breaking out of his trace. “it is time for us to set to work.”

“Sir,” Ernie piped up. “You haven’t told us what’s in this one,” he said, pointing to a small, black cauldron set on Slughorn’s desk. The potion within it was splashing about merrily; large drops the color of molten gold were leaping like goldfish above the surface, although not a bit had spilled.

“Oho!” said Slughorn again. Harry was certain he hadn’t forgotten, and had simply waited for someone ask to create a dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well,  _that_ one, ladies and gentlemen is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he said, turning to smile at Hermione, who’d let out a small gasp of wonder, “that you know what the Felix does, Miss Granger?”

“It’s liquid luck!” she said excitedly. “It makes the drinker lucky!”

In front of them, Malfoy had straightened upon hearing it, giving Slughorn his undivided attention.

“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it is a funny little potion, Felix Felicis. Desperately tricky to make and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all of your endeavors will succeed…at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people take it all the time, sir?” Terry Boot eagerly.

“Because if it is taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know…highly toxic in large quantities, but taken sparingly, and very occasionally…”

“Have you ever taken it, sir?” Michael Corner asked with great interest.

“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoons taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.” He gazed off for a moment, reliving the experience. “And that,” he said, breaking away from it. “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”

The silence that followed made every bubble in the cauldrons seem infinitely louder, booming in Hermione’s ear.

“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a small, corked glass bottle from his pocket and show it to them all. “Enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in all you attempt. Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions…sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only, and watch how that day becomes extraordinary!

“So,” Slughorn continued, suddenly brisk. “How are you to win my fabulous prize? By turning to page ten of  _Advanced Potion-Making._  We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be enough time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complicated that anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”

Hermione flicked her eyes over the page, reciting the ingredients needed as she went to the cupboards and retrieved what the other three would need. When she returned and passed out the ingredients to Harry, Ron, and Ernie, she saw that Harry’s copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making_ had been extensively written in. Notes and annotations were squeezed into the margins and over crossed-out words, and even Harry, whose own handwriting was atrocious, was having trouble deciphering.

“What is all that?” she whispered, none too keen to disrupt the pleasant, busy silence that had fallen over the room.

“I dunno,” Harry returned, still squinting. He thanked her for getting the ingredients, and began to chop up his valerian roots.

Hermione shrugged it off and set to work. She easily fell into a rhythm, one her father had taught her several years ago. She allowed the knife to glide over her nail and through the root with a gentle rocking of her wrist, and soon moved on to the next step.

Ten minutes into the task, and bluish steam filled the room. The lioness had to keep battling her hair away from her face as it became the untamed mane it had been during her first years in Hogwarts. Unarmed with a tie, she stuffed it down into her robes the best she could, and took to cutting the sopophorous bean.

“No, don’t do that,” Harry whispered.

“Why not? The instructions say—”

“Crush the bean with the side of your knife, it’s much easier to get to the juice, look—”

True to his word, his potion had turned to the lilac shade of purple the book described. Hermione took a moment to study his potion, and then her own, which was still a deep purple. Curiously, she tried to draw the dagger though the bean. As if made from steel, the little bean refused to give under her strength. She cocked an eyebrow and turned her dagger sideways and crushed the bean instead. More liquid than the shriveled bean appeared able to hold spilled out, and she hastily threw it into her potion. Instantly, the deep purple turned to lilac. 

“How did you do that?” she whispered.

“The little scribbles, it also says add a clockwise—”

“It can’t possibly be right twice, Harry,” she whispered back. “The book clearly states counterclockwise.”

“Well you go by your book, I’ll go by mine, and we’ll discuss it later, then? One of us has to be right.”

She nodded and fell silent. Her potion paled, as the book described, and tried to block out Ron’s fluent, soft cursing at his potion. The concoction in his cauldron was a sickly black color, like liquid licorice.

Hermione continued stirring, pleased that her potion was paling nicely.

“And time’s…up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”

The potions master slowly made his way around every table, pausing now and again to sniff at a few cauldrons. When he arrived at the last table, he gave a rueful smile to the tar-like substance in Ron’s cauldron, passed over Ernie’s navy concoction, and gave Hermione’s an approving nod. He paused, incredulous, when he reached Harry’s.

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it’s clear you’ve inherited your mother’s talent! She was a dab at Potions, Lilly was! And here you are, as promised—one bottle of Felix Felicis! Use it well, dear boy!”

Harry smiled, pleased, and thanked him before he slipped the bottle into his pocket safely. The Slytherins were glaring at him, and Ron and Hermione looked dumbfounded.

x--x 

Harry would not answer any questions until they were safely seated in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione’s eyes narrowed with every word he spoke.

“I suppose you think I cheated, then?” he finished, aggravated by her clearly displeased expression.

“It wasn’t exactly your work, now was it? However, that’s beside the point—”

“He only followed instructions different than ours,” said Ron. “Could’ve been a catastrophe, couldn’t it? But he took a risk and it paid off—”

“Hang on,” another voice said before Hermione could continue. Ginny continued once she had Harry’s undivided attention. “Did I hear right? You’ve been taking orders from something someone else wrote in a book, Harry?” Ginny looked both livid and incredibly concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, attempting to reassure her before lowering his voice. “It’s not like, you know, Riddle’s diary. It’s just an old textbook someone scribbled on.”

“But you’re doing what it says?”

“I just tried a few tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there’s nothing funny—”

“Ginny has a point, Harry.” Hermione said sharply. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”

Harry frowned, but pushed the book to her raised wand anyway.

_“Specialis Revelio!”_

Nothing happened. The book simply lay there, looking old, dirty, and dog-eared.

“Anything else you’d like to do, or shall we watch it all night in case it starts doing backflips?” Harry said, reaching across the table to retrieve it.

 x--x

The following Potions lessons passed with enormous success from Harry, and increasing irritation from Hermione. Harry followed every deviation the previous owner of the book, the ‘Half-Blood Prince’ he called himself, had made, and nearly every page was corrected in some manner. He offered to share his book, but even after numerous tests Hermione had performed, she would not bear false integrity and use it, despite Harry’s obvious triumph.

 x--x

The first Saturday came, and Harry participated in his first lesson with Dumbledore.

“How was it?” Hermione asked excitedly, wide-awake as soon as Harry stumbled through the portrait-hole.

Harry, his eyes still glazed as his thoughts continued to be filled of what he’s seen in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It was… it was something…”

“That doesn’t tell us much, mate,” Ron yawned from the couch.

Harry hesitated. “I’m only allowed to tell you two,” he murmured, looking at Hermione. “This is really important. Not even Fleur can know.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed in question and her head tilted. “Okay. I won’t tell her.”

“You swear it?”

“Harry, we both know the other guards secrets. She’s been working at Gringotts for the sake of a mission Dumbledore gave her. Do I know what that mission is? No, but I trust her. Did she know about Sirius? Not until you felt comfortable. Ron, however, was still having issues with the Veela genetics.”

The redhead flushed lightly.

“Do you swear?” Harry repeated. “Dumbledore made it clear that it must only be us.”

“She knows Dumbledore’s teaching you something, I’m sure she’ll ask how it went. I’ll tell her it’s classified, and if permission comes to tell her or if it’s a dangerous situation involving myself, she’ll know.”

Harry considered that briefly, remembering the fierce look of utter rage and the deepest fear he’d ever seen on Fleur’s face that night in the Ministry, when Hermione lay unconscious across Neville’s shoulders. When she most willingly sacrificed her own blood, how the golden tendrils returned Hermione to her with the raw power of ancient Veela magic, and what weighed most upon his shoulders: the knowledge that her death would follow Hermione’s, the terror he’d seen in Fleur’s eyes as she thought her own guard of heart had perished, denied the chance to defend her.

Harry nodded. “Of course, and please, send her my apologies…”

Hermione smiled with a nod. “Now, what did Dumbledore tell you?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly  _tell_ me much of anything. He showed me memories in the Pensieve. Bob Ogden’s memories.”

Hermione racked her brains. The name sounded familiar, but very distant.

Harry continued. “The memory he showed me was about Voldemort’s  _mother_ and  _father._ Apparently, his uncle, Morfin, had hexed a Muggle, and Ogden was sent from the Ministry to deliver the summons, since they weren’t answering the letters. They spoke in Parseltounge, and his grandfather, Marvolo, treated his daughter like dirt because he thought she was a Squib. Instead, she was a very good witch, and after her father and brother had been sent to Azkaban for assaulting Ministry officials, we think she slipped a love potion to  _Tom Riddle Senior,_ who was the Muggle she’d secretly fallen in love with.

“After a while, she stopped drugging him, hoping that he would have fallen in love with her too, after they’d married and she’d conceived. That didn’t happen, and Tom left before the baby had been born.

“What else was interesting to me, was that Marvolo had heirlooms left over from the previous generations’ hoards of gold; it’d been used up by the time Marvolo was born. But, both heirlooms, a locket and a ring, were Slytherin’s, and Marvolo was very proud of his royal, pure-blooded line. More than that, Dumbledore has the ring I saw; he said he’d just recently acquired it, just before he got me from the Dursley’s. And he wore it when we visited Slughorn before coming to Hogwarts. His hand was injured by the time we got there.”

Hermione’s brow knitted in thought.

“That…” Ron said, both sleepily and in wonder. “That is something…”

“I think I’ll need to sleep on this, Harry…” Hermione murmured.

Harry rubbed the back of his head. “I know the feeling.”

“So Dumbledore’s showing you memories of Voldemort’s past…” she ignored Ron’s indigent squawk. “That’s… scary.” She decided at last.

Harry could only nod.

 x--x

As the days drew by, Hermione’s prediction that the sixth years’ free periods were not hours of blissful relaxation proved true. They studied as though they took exams every day, and the lessons were becoming more brutal by the day. Nonverbal spells were now expected in Defense Against the Dark Arts, as well as Charms and Transfiguration. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses, where they could at least curse loudly if they were grabbed by some monstrosity of a plant.

Harry’s best subject soon became Potions, all due to the Half-Blood Prince’s notes and corrections. Hermione was still weary of his use of the book, but had stopped trying to break the stubborn Gryffindor’s habit. It certainly wasn’t going anywhere, and with the workload ahead of them, Harry would not give up something he saw fit to help him survive.

One result of this enormous amount of work was they had yet had the opportunity to go and see Hagrid. He had stopped coming to meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the few occasions when they had passed him in the corridors, or on the grounds, he had mysteriously failed to notice them or hear their greetings.

“We’ve got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking up at Hagrid’s huge empty chair at the staff table the following Saturday at breakfast.

“We’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ron.  _“And_ we’re supposed to be practicing the Aguamenti Charm for Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?”

“We didn’t  _hate_ it!”

“Speak for yourself, ‘Mione, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts. And I’m telling you now, we’ve had a narrow escape. You didn’t hear him going on about his gormless brother—we’d have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we’d stayed.”

“Nonetheless, I hate not talking to Hagrid,” Hermione said, chewing on her lip. “After everything he’s done for us.”

“We’ll go down after Quidditch,” Harry reassured her, for he missed Hagrid too. “But trials could last all morning, with the number of people who’ve applied.”

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of  _The Daily Prophet._ Hermione took the newspaper in her hands and began to read, which allowed Harry the safety of disguising a new copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making_ as the old secondhand one, and the Prince’s as new. He was sure she’d find out anyway, and scold him, but it was Saturday, after all. He’d do what he could in order to avoid an argument on a Saturday.

The lioness made a disgruntled noise behind her paper.

“Anyone we know dead?” Ron asked in a forcibly casual tone.

“No, but there have been more dementor attacks and an arrest.”

“Who?”

“Stan Shunpike.”

_“What?”_

_“‘Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home…”_

“Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?” Harry said, appalled. He remembered the spotty youth from three years ago the first time he met him, and never thought that there had been anything more dangerous to him than his driving. “No way!”

“He might have been put under the curse, you never can tell,” said Ron.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Hermione continued. “It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters’ secret plans in a pub. If he was under the Imperious Curse, he’d hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?”

“It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did,”

“They probably want to look as though they’re doing something,” the lioness continued, frowning. “People are terrified—you know the Patil twins’ parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn? Her parents came last night to get her.”

“What!” said Ron, goggling. “But Hogwarts is safer than their homes! We’ve got Aurors and Order members and all those extra protective spells, and we’ve got Dumbledore!”

Hermione sighed. Yes, they did have Aurors, and the Order was prowling the grounds, and among them, a very talented, very lethal Veela. She’d run the grounds, chasing the lioness as she squeezed in some time to run, as much as her workload would allow. They’d raced the sun and fought the wind, found release and escape as they followed one another across the grounds, reveling in the fact that they didn’t have to hide anymore. They’d collapsed together at the bank of Black Lake, recalling the trips they’d taken there with Shamin nearly two years ago. They’d lain together at its bank, Hermione stretched across Fleur’s lap, books discarded around them. They discussed and contemplated their crumbling world, the façade of sanity school and work gave them. They built a firmer refuge between themselves, a safe haven, a place of peace and love and kisses where sorrow had no space.

She pulled her thoughts away from her Veela and refocused.

“Honestly, I don’t think we have Dumbledore all the time. Haven’t you noticed? His seat’s just as empty as Hagrid’s all week.”

Harry and Ron cast a glance to the staff table. Dumbledore’s chair was indeed empty.

“Is he doing anything with the Order?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, not that Fleur knows of at least…”

They all followed trains of unspoken thought. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since. Hermione cast another glance to the staff table, and hoped for a miracle, even though she knew the chances of one was slim.

The three of them left the Gryffindor table five minutes later, Ron and Harry to the Quidditch pitch, and Hermione to the Tower to study for a bit. Alone, she hurried up the stairs, organizing what she needed to study most in her head. But when she opened the door to her quarters, all thought of study fled, for Fleur was sitting atop her mattress.

 


	5. Nameless Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Forgive the chapter title, dear ReginaCorda did not supply one for me so I just filled it in with a generic title. Sorry! Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and please let me know (indiefox) if there are any typos or grammatical errors that I missed :3. I truly appreciate it :D

“Hello, darling,” Fleur said softly, smiling at the lioness.

Hermione didn’t respond. She dropped her bag, kicked her shoes off and launched herself at Fleur. She pressed a heated kiss to her mouth, begging entrance which was promptly granted. She moaned into the Veela’s mouth, allowed her hands free reign to travel wherever they pleased, and found her fingers deftly unbuttoning the blonde’s blouse. She practically ripped the offending garment from her body, and tossed it to the floor carelessly.

Fleur drew a sharp breath as nails bit into her shoulders, Hermione’s mouth leaving its own to claim her neck and collar. She arched against the lioness, drawing her closer, more than willing to succumb to her body’s primal instincts and wishes.

How long had it been? A week, perhaps? Far too long, whatever the case. Hermione was intoxicating, and Fleur was drunk.

Slender, talented hands reached the button of Fleur’s jeans, and the Veela mustered all her strength to restrain them. Hermione fought her, but Fleur took dominance and forced her outer robes aside and down her arms, pulled the black sweater over her head, leaving her panting in the white uniform blouse, the crimson-and-gold tie around her neck, plaid skirt and knee-high grey socks.

Fleur’s eyes were dark as they dragged themselves over Hermione’s body. Fleur gripped her tie with one hand, and pulled the brunette flush against her body, her mouth claiming Hermione’s again.

This kiss was anything but gentle. It was possessive, unrestrained and left no room for argument. Hermione shuddered against Fleur as she held her tighter, as she stoked the Veela’s fire, moaning loudly into her mouth and raking her nails over her shoulders. She found herself beneath Fleur, looking up into her eyes, panting for her, begging for her.

If Hermione enjoyed having control, she adored the way Fleur wielded it over her. She adored how Fleur knew where her favorite spots were, and just how to bite them. She loved the way Fleur shivered every time her name was whimpered, or every time Hermione’s hips rolled towards her, her skirt bunching up at the top.

Fleur pressed her lips to Hermione’s neck, and dragged her teeth over the sensitive skin there. Hermione let out a shaky breath, her hands clenching strong shoulders, shuddering again when she felt rather than heard Fleur’s low growl in return.

“You’ll have to be quiet, Hermione,” Fleur whispered, hot breath rushing over her ear. “You don’t have a silencing charm in place.”

Hermione bit her lip and moaned softly, mentally berating herself. But she was not about to allow Fleur to leave, even for a moment, and pulled her in closer. She lifted her hips high, knowing very well that the Veela could feel her heat.

Suddenly, the weight over her was lifted, her body left cold. Fleur leaned back on her haunches and stared down at Hermione. The brunette panted under her, pleading wordlessly, and finally, Fleur hooked her fingers under the waistband of Hermione’s knickers. She obediently lifted her hips as Fleur slid them over her legs, and began to unfasten the clasps to her skirt when the Veela’s hands stopped her.

“No. Leave them on.”

Hermione nodded and watched as the blue of Fleur’s irises surrendered to the black of her pupils. Without breaking eye contact, the Veela drew a single finger over Hermione’s sex, spreading her apart before she pushed inside. The brunette under her clenched her jaw, trying her very best to remain silent.

Fleur had to bite back her own moan. Hermione clung to her, drew her deeper, and the look of pleasure that washed over her face just before her eyes closed had sent Fleur into an internal frenzy. She tightened her grip on herself, on focused on Hermione; how she moved with her, how she took air in though narrowly parted lips and released it in shaky exhales, as her hands first busied themselves with clenching her blankets, then beckoned Fleur near again.

The Veela only shook her head, and quickened her thrusts. She pressed in deeply, withdrew, and pushed forward again, watching as a blush spread over the other’s skin. She continued her slow, deliberate assault, pleased when Hermione whimpered her name. She slowly lowered herself between Hermione’s legs, kissing over her thighs without stuttering in her thrusts. As her mouth continued higher, Hermione’s breathing quickened, labored, her hips insistent to bring her closer to her lover’s mouth.

Fleur’s breath ghosted over her skin in a chuckle. She nipped gently, teasing the other with hot breaths and sudden, brief touches on her clit. She kept up her deliberate torture for several long minutes that passed like eternities to Hermione, before finally, she gave her lover the pleasure she’d begged for.

Fleur whimpered as she tasted Hermione, quenching the thirst that had clawed at her for far too long. Hermione was just as enthusiastic, and had to bite down on her knuckles to keep from crying out. She bucked against Fleur’s mouth, against her hand, small whimpers and gasps of pleasure breaking her lips from time to time. Fleur would hush her, and thrust harder against her, bringing her to the edge of orgasm before she pulled away again.

Hermione protested softly, lifting her hips and pleading her to return with pants and breathless words. Fleur only chuckled and straightened again. With a devilish smile, she brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them gently. They replaced her mouth and started tracing circles around her clit.

Hermione came unraveled beneath her. She writhed and panted, choked down her screams of ecstasy, and was incredibly surprised when she felt weight settle over her. Fleur buried her face in her neck, panting into Hermione’s ear. She continued to meet her thrusts, and rode out orgasm on her hand, whimpering brokenly into the Veela’s ear as she met a second crest, arching up to press every line of her body to Fleur’s.

Hermione moaned softly as Fleur withdrew, and very nearly came again when she licked her fingers clean. The Veela turned to lie on her side, and drew the other into her arms, smoothing her hair down. Hermione didn’t hesitate to burrow into her neck, sighing as she did.

“Well that was a lovely surprise,” she chuckled softly.

Fleur hummed in agreement. “I didn’t think you’d be so… insistent.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and fell silent, pressing her ear to the Veela’s chest. Her heartbeat was still fast and excited, reluctant to calm. The lioness couldn’t resist another chuckle.

Fleur cocked an eyebrow at her. “What’s so funny, love?”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” she sighed happily.   

The Veela said nothing, and began rubbing gentle circles into Hermione’s shoulders, peppering her face with kisses. They lay together in content silence for several long, happy minutes, until Hermione sat upright, startling Fleur.

“What time is it?”

“Ten forty-five, why?” Fleur asked, glancing at her watch.

“Shit!” Hermione jumped out of bed, and began rummaging through her drawers in search of clean clothes. “I promised Harry and Ron I’d only study for an hour!”

Fleur rolled to her side and propped her head upon her hand. “You were studying, were you?”

Hermione paused to throw an exasperated glare her way. “I would have.”

“Of course, love.”

“And after Quidditch tryouts, we’re going to see Hagrid. Want to come?”

“Sure, it’s been a while. He isn’t very happy with you dropping the class I take it?”

“He won’t even speak to us.”

 

Shortly after, the two made their way to the Quidditch pitch. Harry had just chased off a group of Hufflepuffs and younger Ravenclaws, all of which joined the Veela and Hermione in the stands. Fleur watched with keen interest, trying desperately to remember what all Hermione had told her at the last game she’d watched.

“So what did you do at Beauxbaton’s? If not Quidditch, I mean.”

“Well, we had a rather interesting version of polo we played on the horses. Took a long time before we had a team that was any good in the air. What are they doing now?”

Hermione studied the figures below. “Looks like it’s the Keeper’s turn for tryouts. Ron was Keeper last year, won the championship, but he still looks a bit green…”

Hermione fixed a large boy in her stare and drew her wand.

“Hermione, what in God’s name are you doing?”

“Long story, love.” She said softly, and concentrated very hard on Cormac McLaggen. Fleur watched flabbergasted. Though she was playing dreadfully unfair, she did not do as horrible a deed as she could have, for McLaggen only made one horrible miss. He grit his teeth and returned to the ground, snarling obscenities.

Hermione sighed, and broke her concentration, stowing her wand in her robes again.

“Are you going to tell me?” Fleur asked, still scandalized.

“His personality is not compatible with the Gryffindor team. He’s arrogant and rude, and does not take responsibility for his own actions. You should have heard him talking about Ron and Ginny the other day. Said he would take over their positions while guarding the posts, they’re so rotten. Harry doesn’t know this yet, but he would tear the team apart to make himself stand out.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow and nodded silently, deciding to let the whole thing go.

“Good luck!” a voice called from beside them. Lavender Brown buried her face in her hands as Ron turned to see who it was after he’d mounted his broom. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Bad blood?” Fleur asked.

“Not at all, I just wish some people would be more up front about their attractions like you were.” She returned, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Not everyone is as charismatic or hopeful as I, love,” she said between chuckles. “I had one chance to make it or break it, so why not go for it with everything I had?”

“If I recall correctly, you were quite shy,” Hermione returned, kissing the back of Fleur’s hand.

The Veela balked for a moment. “I hoped you would find it cute. I believe it worked.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but did not reply. 

Ron saved all five of his goals, much to Hermione’s delight. Then she turned her eyes to McLaggen, whose voice was easily detected by the Veelas.

“His sister didn’t really try, she gave him an easy save!” he thundered.

“No,” Harry returned, holding his ground. “that was the one he nearly missed. Ron saved five, you saved four. Ron’s Keeper.”

For a long moment, the two stared at one another. Hermione drew her wand, anticipating a punch. Instead, McLaggen turned and strode off, shouting threats and curses to anyone in his way.

“See?” Hermione said. Fleur only sighed and nodded. The two presently raced down to the pitch, high-fiving and hugging Ron. Lavender passed with a scowl on her face, her arm looped around Parvati’s.

After Harry had fixed the first full practice for the following Thursday, the four of them bade goodbye to the rest the team and headed to Hagrid’s.

“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron continued, still high from the excellent tryout. “Tricky shot, did you see the spin on it?”

“Yeah, I was quite surprised.” Harry returned.

Fleur cast a skeptical glance at Hermione. She shook her head and nodded to Ron.

“You did a great job, Ron, honestly,”

“And did you see McLaggen? Lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he’d been Confunded…” Hermione turned a very delicate shade of pink. Harry noticed immediately, but had the grace to say nothing. Fleur shot him a glance.

Buckbeak greeted them when they arrived at Hagrid’s hut. Harry bowed low to the beast, who soon bowed in return, and allowed the wizard to stroke the feathers of his head.

“How are you?” Fleur asked softly, after the hippogriff had accepted her bow. “Miss him, don’t you? At least you’re happy with Hagrid…”

“Oi!” a loud booming voice sounded from the hut. Hagrid had come striding around the side of the hut, wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. Fang bounded along after him, and seemed dead-set on licking Hermione to death.

“Git away from him! He’ll have yer fingers—oh. It’s yeh lot.” Hagrid’s eyes passed over Hermione, Harry, and Ron, ignoring Fleur, before he turned and went back into his hut, slamming the door behind him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry grumbled, drawing his wand. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly.

“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!”

No sound broke the silence.

“If you don’t open the door, we’ll blast it open!”

“Harry, you can’t possibly—” Hermione began.

“Yeah, I can! Stand back!”

Then the door opened just as Harry knew it would. And there stood Hagrid, looking rather alarming despite the flowered apron.

“I’m a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!”

“I’m sorry,  _sir,”_

Hagrid balked for a moment. “Since when have yeh called me ‘sir’?”

“Since when have you called me ‘Potter’?”

“Oh, very clever,” Hagrid growled. “Very amusin’. That’s me outsmarted, innit? All righ’, come in then, yeh ungrateful little…”

Fleur looked very alarmed, and kept glancing between Hermione and the retreating form of Hagrid, who had yet to even comment on her presence. Hermione reached out a hand before she could think of retreat, and pulled her inside.

“So,” Hagrid said, his back to them as they seated themselves at the large wooden table. “What’s this? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I’m lonely?”

“No,” Harry said at once. “We wanted to see you.”

“We’ve missed you,” Hermione added softly.

“Missed me, have yeh?” Hagrid snorted. “Yeah. Righ’.”

He stomped around, brewed tea, and set three bucket-sized mugs on the table along with a plate of rock cakes. It was only then he noticed Fleur’s presence.

“Oh,” he said, looking around him. “I’m afraid I only have the three mugs…”

“It’s quite all right, Hagrid.” Fleur returned. “I’ll share with Hermione. It is really good to see you, though.”

“Yeah, yeh too. How’re the Horntails?”

“They’re all doing quite nicely. They’ve all accepted Veelas in the tribe, and everyone’s quite happy.”

“And Hermione’s Alkaia?”

“She was sad to see her go, but I visit her as often as I visit Shamin, so she’s not without company for long.”  

The giant nodded, and Hermione was quick to kill the impending silence.

“Hagrid,” she began softly. “We really wanted to continue Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave a great snort. “We did! But none of us could fit it into our schedules, and even if we all had Time-Turners, we wouldn’t be able to keep up with all our bloody homework!”

“They’re really piling it on this year,” Ron added quietly.

“Yeah. Righ’.” Hagrid said again.

A funny squelching noise emitted from the large barrel near Ron, who let out a squawk and jumped out of his chair. Hermione and Fleur drew away, studying the barrel with keen, yet disgusted, interest. It was full of what appeared to be foot-long maggots.

“What are they, Hagrid?” Harry asked, trying to sound more interested than revolted.

“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid.

“And they grow into…?” Ron asked, recovering slightly in the corner.

“They won’ grow inter nuthin’. I got ‘em ter feed Aragog.”

And without warning, he burst into tears.

“Hagrid!” Hermione cried, leaping from her chair and rushing to his side, and tried to stretch her arm around his massive shoulders. “What is it?”

“It’s… him…” gulped Hagrid, his eyes streaming. “It’s Aragog… I think he’s dyin’… got ill over the summer an’ he’s not gettin’ better… I don’ know what I’ll do if he… if he… We’ve bin together so long…”

Hermione cast a worried glance at the other three, and stroked his shoulder speechless. Fleur knew exactly how she felt. She knew Hagrid had presented a baby dragon with a teddy bear, crooned over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, and attempted to reason with his giant of a half-brother. She knew there was nothing of comfort to be said, nothing to soothe his worried, except one thing. One, horribly selfless, dangerous thing.

“Is there—is there anything we can do?” Hermione asked softly, despite Ron’s vigorous head-shaking.

“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” Hagrid choked out. Fleur tried not to release an audible breath of relief. She trusted Hermione’s capabilities, but from the stories she’d heard from Harry and Ron, along with what she’d experienced herself, the giant arachnids of the Forbidden Forest were a force not to be reckoned with. “See,” Hagrid continued. “The rest o’ the tribe… Aragog’s family… they’re gettin’ a bit funny now he’s ill… bit restive… I don’ reckon it’d be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo’,” he paused to blow his nose on a large spotted handkerchief. “But thanks for offering, Hermione… it means a lot…”

The atmosphere lightened considerably after Hagrid considered Hermione’s offer as amends to the three Gryffindor’s past transgression. He chatted happily, and never allowed their mugs to empty, not that it wouldn’t have taken an eternity anyway, since they were more buckets than mugs.

“Ar, I always knew yeh’d find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables, even with Time-Turners,”

“Even if they did apply for Time-Turners,” Fleur spoke up. “They couldn’t have gotten them anyway, since they destroyed the Ministry’s stocks. The French Ministry was asked to provide a few for the Aurors that needed them.”

“Yeah, it was all over the _Daily Prophet.”_ Hermione added.

They chatted a bit longer, and soon retired to the Great Hall for dinner, where Harry cornered Hermione and inquired about McLaggen’s performance. She reported honestly, just after the large Gryffindor shoved Fleur out of his way to be met with an angrily cast Jelly-Legs Jinx and a Bat-Bogey Hex from Fleur and Hermione, respectively. The male was reduced to uncooperative legs that refused to heed his commands while attempting to run away from the bat-winged bogeys issuing from his nostrils. Someone cast the counterjixes and helped him to his feet, leaving him to scowl over his shoulder as he walked away.

“And what about Ron?” Harry asked, eyeing her skeptically after McLaggen had seated himself at a far table.

“It was all him,” Fleur murmured. “She put her wand away.”

“Hey, what are you three doing?” Ron asked, poking his head around the corner.

“Nothing, just had to sort McLaggen out.” Harry replied.

Ron threw a contemptuous look over his shoulder. “Git.” He murmured.

“Ah, Harry my boy!” a voice boomed in front of them. “Just the man I was hoping to see! I had hoped to catch you before dinner! What do you say for a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We’re having a little party, just a few rising stars, I’ve got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin—I don’t know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries—and of course I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too! And who is this lovely young lass?”

Hermione flushed darkly, and took Fleur’s hand. “This is Fleur Delacour, she’s my mate.”

“Mate?” Slughorn repeated, a curious, confused look sweeping over his features.

“Yes,” Fleur spoke up. “You see, I’m quarter-Veela, sir. Hermione is my mated consort.”

“Oho! A Veela, you say? Well, you certainly must accompany Miss Granger, if, of course, the two of you so choose!” Slughorn finished, giving them a little bow. It was as though Ron was not present, for despite the three other’s glances towards him, Slughorn paid him no mind.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I can’t tonight. I have detention with Professor Snape.”

“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. “Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I’ll just have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I’ll see you three later!” he turned and bustled out of the Hall with great gusto.

“He’s got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot and they had seated themselves at the Gryffindor table. “This detention’s already been postponed once; Snape did it for Dumbledore, but he won’t do it for anyone else.”

“Are you going, Fleur?” Hermione asked softly, glancing at the Veela.

“I’m not leaving you to deal with it alone, if that’s what you’re asking,” she returned softly, though reluctance was clear in her tone. “Besides, I’m sure he’ll be disappointed anyway, when I can’t answer his questions.”

Ron huffed from Harry’s side, but said nothing.

Hermione didn’t comment, instead picked up a copy of the  _Evening Prophet_ someone else had abandoned. “Oh, look, your dad’s in here, Ron—he’s all right!” she added hastily at the alarm on his face. “It just says he’s been to visit the Malfoy’s house…they didn’t find anything… and he was acting on a confidential tip-off.”

“Yeah, mine!” Harry thundered. “I told him at King’s Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it’s not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him—”

“That’s impossible, Harry,” Fleur murmured. “Filch and some Order members ran Secrecy Sensors all over the students when they came through the gates. Any Dark object would have been found; a few shrunken heads were confiscated.”

“What about the owls—”

“They’re being searched, too,” Hermione said.

Harry frowned, and glanced over at Ron’s cross-armed form hopefully. His attention seemed to be trained on Lavender Brown. “Can you think of any way Malfoy–?”

“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron.

“Listen, it’s not my fault Slughorn invited us to his stupid party, none of us wanted to go, you know!”

“Well, as I’m not invited to any parties,” said Ron, getting to his feet. “I think I’ll go to bed.” He stomped off and out of the Hall, leaving the other three to stare after him. Shortly after, the new Gryffindor Chaser approached with a letter from Snape to Harry, confirming what he already knew.

Sighing, he ate quickly and accompanied the two Veelas to Slughorn’s room and wished them luck. The two traded a glance, took the other’s hand, and knocked.


	6. A Felix-Assisted Quidditch Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again friends, here is a lil note that ReginaCorda left me in an email for this chapter. "So, for those of you who read Dusk of Summer, I changed something recently. Originally, Lavender was the one who led Fleur to Hermione’s room after she’d been accepted by the Goblet to represent Beauxbaton’s. It wasn’t until writing this that I realized that Lavender Brown isn’t exactly the character that would strike a male student much bigger than herself and send him flying to his ass for making a snide remark. So that person is now Katie Bell, because she seemed to be a bad-ass. Just wanted to make that clarification and apologize for my inaptness."
> 
> Again, if I missed grammar or spelling errors, please be kind enough to let me know and what part of the story so I can find, and fix it faster :3. Enjoy.

 

The days began to grow shorter and soon October reared its head with a cold, stormy relish. Fleur and Hermione shared their two-year anniversary in the cottage together before the weather got too terrible to face and spent it wrapped in each other’s arms with nothing between them, the night filled with laughter and warmth and innumerable kisses. The first Hogsmeade visit was upon them, and students left the castle in droves despite the horrible weather conditions.

Fleur accompanied the three Gryffindors during their visit to the village, and helped Harry reprimand Mundungus for stealing objects bearing the Black family crest, which was now Harry’s, passed on by Sirius’s will. As they were heading back, Fleur saw Katie Bell being lifted into the air with her mouth stretched open as if to admit a scream, although no sound came forth. With a hasty spell, she broke the enchantment and Katie’s body fell to the ground. She studied the ground around her, while Hermione comforted her sobbing friend, and saw to her horror, a glittering necklace lying in the snow. The Veela ripped the scarf from her neck and carefully wrapped the necklace in it, before barking strict instructions to Harry not to touch the necklace directly. With that, she lifted the unconscious girl into her arms, and sprinted to the castle. McGonagall received her, brushing off an eager Filch when he stalked forward with a Secrecy Sensor in hand. The other four arrived shortly after the Veela herself, and were quickly ushered into McGonagall’s office after Katie had been situated in the infirmary.

It was then that Fleur heard Harry’s ‘Malfoy-Is-A-Death-Eater’ theory in far greater detail than before. McGonagall took interest, but not as keenly as Harry might have wished.

“You see, Potter,” she began after Harry had finished. “Malfoy could not have cursed Katie in Hogsmeade. He was in detention with me for missing two homework assignments.”

“But, the necklace,” Harry protested. “I saw it in Borgin and Burkes!”

“Harry,” Hermione sighed. “Remember what he said? ‘How would I look lugging that thing down the street?’ If it were the necklace, he’d hardly have to lug it.”

“And how did you hear of this, Miss Granger?” McGonagall asked lowly, eyeing Hermione.

“I was in the shop. I had to get some alchemy supplies.” She answered easily.

“In any case,” the professor continued after a moment. “The necklace was indeed cursed, and thank you, Fleur, for bringing Miss Bell to the castle so quickly, as well as sacrificing your scarf. Now for your theory, Potter. Even if Malfoy had joined you and your fellow classmates into Hogsmeade, I highly doubt he’d spend his time waiting in a bathroom waiting for Miss Bell as Leanne has described as the point in time when she became afflicted with the curse. Thank you for offering your suspicions, Harry, but now I really must go and check on Miss Bell.” She held her office door open for them as they silently filed out. “Fleur,” the elder witch called after a moment. “A word, if you please.”

The Veela ducked down to kiss Hermione gently before promising to meet her in the common room afterwards. The Gryffindor nodded, and watched as her Veela rejoined the Deputy Headmistress.

“Yes, Professor?” Fleur murmured as she fell into step beside the older witch.

“My name is Minerva, Fleur,” she chuckled softly. “You may address me as such.”

Fleur nodded. “Minerva, then.” The name left her mouth was as strange of an air as Dumbledore’s first name did. It was strange, to speak around such powerful witches and wizards as equals, when she had felt anxiety and nervousness wash through her stomach at the thought of their opinions on the width of her shoulder strap as she dressed for the Yule Ball just two years ago. It was unnerving.

“The headmaster, as I trust you heard earlier, will not return to campus for an unforeseeable amount of time, and thus has tasked me with the responsibility of taking your report. Do you have anything of news or interest?”

“Yes, Pro—Minerva, as a matter of fact I do. Bill was right, one of the tunnels does lead to France. I’ve arranged a meeting between the French Ministry and you or Dum—Albus yourselves to discuss the matter next Friday, if you are able. They are interested in assisting those they can, given the circumstances. New contacts for way-houses are being set up every day. We’ve stopped excavating the tunnel believed to lead to Germany, instead we’ve begun to place safety measures in the one en route to France. We plan to begin excavation on the second tunnel by next Tuesday.”

McGonagall nodded her understanding. “Very good, Fleur. I’m sure Albus will be pleased to hear this.”

“Minerva…” the witch turned to lock eyes with the blonde Veela. “Albus hasn’t told me exactly why we’re doing this. It’s not easy work to do without the goblins knowing.”

The old Gryffindor sighed heavily. “They’re escape routes, Fleur. In the event that people cannot flee the country before  _he_ decides to raise his army, we want to have another way into neighboring countries where at least they’ll have a chance to find a safe place.”

Fleur thought silently for a long moment before lifting her voice again. “Was it this bad last time?”

“Oh yes,” Minerva answered sadly. “But now we are slightly better prepared with the knowledge of what happened before. Be brave, Fleur. Not only are you Veela, but you’re Gryffindor as well, if my understanding of souls is correct?”

“I… believe that is a correct interpretation, yes,” Fleur chuckled.

“Good,” McGonagall said, coming to a halt before the door to the infirmary. “If there is nothing else of importance, or curiosity, you are dismissed to return to your mate, Fleur.”

Fleur bowed her head briefly. “Minerva, if Dum—Albus, needs assistance with any of his endeavors, involving these ‘trips’ he’s becoming accustomed to, assure him that I would be pleased to join him.”

“Of course, Fleur. Thank you,” and with that, she stepped into the infirmary, leaving Fleur alone with her thoughts as she made her way to the Gryffindor Common Room.

 

Katie was transferred to St. Mungo’s Hospital the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread to the whole school, though the details were contorted by the rumors. Only Fleur, Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Leanne knew that Katie had not been the intended target. The following Monday, Harry had his second lesson with Dumbledore, and it wasn’t until their first period of Herbology he had the chance to relay his story to Hermione and Ron. Over a gnarled, harmless-looking tree stump, he told them of Dumbledore’s earlier memory, as well as Caractaus Burke’s, when he recalled a very poor, very pregnant witch selling Slytherin’s priceless locket for ten Galleons.

Dumbledore’s memory was more invasive. He’d met with eleven-year-old Tom Riddle in the orphanage in which he was born, where he learned of his mysterious ability to control animals and elements, as well as the conversations he could have with snakes. He’d been a bully, and a collector of treasures, trophies, stolen from other children. At first, Riddle had been sure Dumbledore was a doctor, and Hogwarts was an asylum. But with a casual flick of Dumbledore’s wand, the boy’s wardrobe caught fire, but with another flick, left it unscathed by the flames. With strict instruction to return the stolen items, and a rather startling proclamation of independence and self-sufficiency, Dumbledore left the young boy with nothing more than an envelope, and a promise to see him during the following school year. 

“Wow,” Hermione murmured softly. “Hard to think that Voldemort attended school here…” Ron shivered at the name and the lioness rolled her eyes.

“But I still don’t understand why Dumbledore’s showing you all this stuff,” Ron interjected. “I mean yeah, it’s interesting and everything, but what’s the point?”

“Dunno,” Harry returned, inserting a gum shield. “But he says it’s all important and it’ll help me survive.”

“I think it’s fascinating,” Hermione murmured. “It makes absolute sense to know as much about Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?”

A long moment of silence ensued as they strapped on their protective goggles, gloves, and gum shields, before Harry asked, “So how was Slughorn’s latest party?”

“Oh, it was all right, I suppose.” Hermione returned indifferently. “He drones on about famous ex-pupils a bit, and then  _fawns_ over McLaggen and all his connections but we had some really nice food, and introduced us to Gwenog Jones.”

“Gwenog Jones?” asked Ron, his eyes widening behind his goggles.  _“The_ Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?”

“That’s right,” Hermione returned. Professor Sprout barked at them, praising Neville for successfully obtaining his first pod. The other Gryffindor was bleeding from his lip and had several scratches running the length of his arms and face, but otherwise looked quite proud as he held a pulsating green pod the size of a grapefruit.

The three appraised the stump before them, and dived at it as one. It sprang to life, fending off the assaulting Gryffindors with long, prickly, bramble-like vines. Harry and Ron gathered what they could of the vines, and Hermione bravely plunged her arm into the opening between all the tentacle-like vines. She flexed her hand and retraced her arm quickly, emerging victorious with the pod clenched tightly in hand.

“Do this often, Hermione?” Harry jested.

The lioness resisted the urge to throw the pod at him, instead settled for a sharp elbow to his ribs. “No, actually, Fleur’s never needed more than two fingers, thanks.”

Harry flushed darkly, certainly ill-prepared for her response, and passed a bowl over to her. She dropped the pod unceremoniously, and continued their conversation as though it had not been interrupted by a murderous lump of wood or a blatant retort of her sex life.

“Anyway, Slughorn’s going to have a Christmas party, Harry, and there’s no way you’ll be able to avoid it because he actually asked me to check your free evenings so he could be sure to have it on a night you can come.”

Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron seemed to be treating the pod as violently as possible, trying to squeeze the contents out of it as he angrily said, “And this is another party for Slughorn’s favorites, is it?”

“Just the Slug Club, yes.”

Ron pushed down on the pod so hard it flew out from under his hands and rebounded against the greenhouse glass.

Harry hastily went to retrieve the pod, eager to leave earshot of the conversation. When he returned, Hermione’s voice wasn’t cruel, nor condescending, but it was very angry all the same. 

“I don’t know why you’re upset with me,” she said, while Ron wouldn’t meet her gaze. “We’re allowed to bring guests, you know, and in the event the Fleur couldn’t come with me, I was going to ask you. But, since you enjoy being a prat so much, I don’t think you’d be a proper dinner guest.”

“You were going to ask me?” Ron asked, surprised.

“Yes, I was. I know how much you wanted to come, and I’ve already spoken with Fleur, who is, as of now, accompanying me. But, with the work she’s doing for Dumbledore, her plans could change, and she was very supportive of you coming in her place, because she, too, knew how much you wanted to go, but it seems like I’ll be going stag in the event that her evening becomes compromised.” Ron’s face flushed dangerously, and for the rest of the lesson, said nothing to Hermione or mentioned Slughorn’s parties.

The next day, Ron’s behavior took a turn for the worst as he treated Hermione with an ugly, sneering indifference. Harry tried desperately to keep the peace between them to no avail, as the redhead stormed off to the boy’s dormitories and Hermione was left bewildered and hurt.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” she asked Harry. “Even after the whole ordeal over Slughorn, he wasn’t acting this cruel.”

Harry sighed heavily, clenching his jaw. “Last night, we walked in on Ginny…  _snogging_ Dean.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Well, they got into an argument, and she retaliated with something like the best action Ron’s ever seen was from their Aunt Muriel, and how I’ve snogged Cho, and you shag Fleur—”

“For the love of anything holy, Harry, Fleur and I don’t  _shag._ ” She grimaced. “We’re a mated pair, and more than that what is what Fleur and I do any of Ron’s business? Or what you’ve done, or what Ginny’s done?” A muscle in Harry’s jaw clenched at the mention of Ginny.

“I think he’s jealous, ‘Mione. Ginny was right, he doesn’t have any more experience than a twelve-year-old…”

The lioness sighed heavily. “He should take another look at Lavender Brown, in that case.” Harry lifted his eyebrows. “You haven’t noticed? The girl practically fawns over him.”

“I’ll have to have a chat with him, then…”

“Yes, please. And tell him to keep to his own business, as well.”

 

Over the next several days, Ron’s mood didn’t improve as they’d hoped. He’d since stopped being cruel to Hermione and taken to outright ignoring her, which considering the circumstances, she approved of. His Quidditch aggression increased by tenfold, however, as he failed to save every single goal aimed for him at the last practice before Saturday’s match. By the end of it, Ginny had nearly hexed him, Demelza Robins had been reduced to tears, and Ron himself had promised that he’d resign from the team after they lost the game.

Harry tried everything he could to rekindle his spirits, but nothing worked. Finally, when Ron stomped off to bed with his head hanging, Hermione lifted her voice.

“You know, you still have that phial of Felix.”

Harry turned to her incredulously.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t actually put it in his morning pumpkin juice, Harry, just make a show of fixing it for him, then I’ll make a show of bitching about how you shouldn’t have done it, kind of like the placebo effect.”

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“Worth a try, don’t you think? Everything else isn’t working. Just don’t tell him until after the game. Now stop stressing and get some sleep, I know you’ll need it.”

That morning, the Great Hall was filled with cheers and boos as Harry and Ron made their way to their seats. Harry put his show on fabulously, and Hermione intervened at the precise moment.

“Harry! What the bloody hell are you thinking? Slughorn  _told_ you about using it! Ron, don’t drink that!”

“Shove off, Hermione,” and gulped his pumpkin juice down.

 

Everything played out to Gryffindor’s advantage. Slytherin’s Seeker, and a Chaser had to call in substitutes, Ron saved every goal, and Gryffindor lead by sixty when Harry caught the Snitch moments after Harper fumbled it. As Hermione and Fleur rushed onto the field to congratulate Gryffindor, Ginny collided into the commentator’s podium, who had bashed Harry’s decisions on team members from the beginning of the game. With loud, roaring approval, assisted by Luna Lovegood’s lion-topped hat, the Gryffindors made their way into the common room to celebrate. Harry and Ron were the last in the changing-room when Fleur and Hermione entered.

With great determination, the lioness school her features. “I want to have a word with you, Harry. You shouldn’t have done it. You heard Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

Harry had a harder time keeping the grin off his face and turned away from her just as Ron said, “Going to turn us in, are you?”

“What are you two talking about?” Harry asked, taking plenty of time to hang his playing robes up.

“You know exactly what they’re talking about, Harry,” Fleur spoke, a tremor of excitement wavering in her voice. “You spiked Ron’s juice with Felix this morning at breakfast!”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry returned, facing the three again with a wide smile.

“Yes, you did, Harry, that’s why everything went right—”

 “No, Ron, he didn’t,” Hermione interjected. “We planned the whole thing last night. You performed the way you did because you  _thought_ you were lucky. You’re a fantastic player all on your own.”

The redhead looked between the three of them, incredulous. He barked a disbelieving laugh in the hope that someone would cave and tell him his suspicions were true. Fleur only smiled and shook her head. Realization slowly dawned on his face.  

“…So you didn’t spike it?”

“No, Ron.” Fleur spoke up. “They didn’t,” she jerked her chin in Harry’s direction, where he held the small glass phial up for inspection. The golden liquid was still tightly corked and the wax unbroken, although Ron made quite the show out of inspecting it thoroughly himself. With a great whoop of excitement, he pulled Hermione into his arms and squeezed her tight.

“Listen, I’m sorry for this past week,” he murmured, turning bright red. “It’s hard to explain, but—”

“I get it, Ron. But if you ever think mine and Fleur’s sex life is any of your business, I’ll castrate you myself. Moreover, learn to trust us,” Hermione returned, punching his arm lightly. “Now let’s get up to the castle, I can smell the butterbeer.”

 

True to her word, the scent of butterbeer slammed into Harry and Ron’s senses as soon as they reached the portrait hole. They were greeted by loud cheers and applause, and Ron was very hastily pulled away by Lavender Brown. Harry and Hermione traded a knowing look, before joining in the festivities themselves. Music filled the common room, butterbeer flowed from a keg, and Fleur discreetly shared her firewhiskey with Hermione from a flask.

“I thought you didn’t like hard liquor?” the lioness asked as she handed the flask back with a shiver.

“Moody taught me how to enjoy it, love,” the Veela laughed, stowing it inside her pocket.

With the alcohol flowing through their veins, they found themselves careless, dancing to the music with barely any room between their bodies. Fleur gripped Hermione’s hips, guiding her as they moved together, meeting her lips and begged for entrance. Hermione complied, deaf to the cheers that rose up around them as they vied for dominance, before the Veela pulled away and dragged Hermione with her.

As she was being led away, the lioness caught a glimpse of Ron and Lavender, so close together their bodies were impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, and let Fleur lead her away through the corridor and into the first empty classroom.


	7. Sexy Time Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry friends for not updating last Friday, with all the Holiday festivities I didn't have a too much contact with my laptop :/. Anyways, here is Chapter 7! I hope you all enjoy it and I recently got a letter from Regina and she is glad you all are enjoying it :3. Again, if there are any errors or anything please review and let me know, or I'm sure Indiefoxproductions will let me know. Happy reading!

 

The door slammed closed as Hermione’s back fell against it. Fleur was in total control, raking her teeth along the column of Hermione’s neck and down to her collarbone, leaving possessive marks in her wake. She fumbled for a moment, growling lowly as Hermione’s buttons proved to be an obstacle to overcome in her desperate search for skin. Finally, she made purchase, and dragged her nails over the Gryffindor’s heaving ribs. Her lips locked onto the brunette’s again, her tongue plunging into her mouth and laying claim as Hermione could not hold back her approval any longer.

Her breath rushed past Fleur’s ear as she made her way down the other side of Hermione’s neck, her panting moans vibrating in the Veela’s cochlea as she forced her legs apart and pushed her thigh between them. Even though the clothes she wore, Hermione’s heat throbbed against the Veela. Fleur gripped her hips again, rocking the witch against her as she continued her assault on her neck and collar, making her way down to flushed, heaving breasts.

She was hardly aware of Hermione’s efforts to remove her jacket until her arms were forced away from the other witch. She growled loudly this time, and fought the Gryffindor tooth and nail until she rid herself of the cursed item. Hermione was given free range to lift the Veela’s shirt, unhook her bra, and lay claim to her breasts. Fleur hissed as the brunette rolled her nipples between her fingers, and tightened her grip on her hips. Hermione chuckled breathlessly, arching against Fleur as she moved her hands from her breasts to tangle in her hair. She raked her fingers through the messy blonde tresses, pulling so hard Fleur was forced to cease her marking and lock eyes with Hermione. They both panted into the same patch of air, searching each other’s eyes for a long moment. Despite the bright shine of the moon in the classroom, their eyes were dark, starving, while their lips were glossy and swollen. Fleur’s hair was still trapped in Hermione’s fingers, and she felt like a dog on a chain as Hermione leaned in ever so slowly and pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips.

Fleur lurched forward, desperate to claim her again, but the Gryffindor tightened her grip, and whispered “Gently,” so softly, Fleur couldn’t be sure she heard it. With every ounce of willpower she had, the Veela returned the gentle kiss, still panting against Hermione’s lips. The lioness kept her hold firm, and with the tip of her tongue, traced the outline of Fleur’s lips. The Veela lurched again, only to be halted once more. She whined softly, a warning, and Hermione pushed her away completely.

Fleur was almost offended until she caught sight of the brunette, unbuttoning her shirt the rest of the way with her bottom lip worried by her teeth. The blouse fell open, revealing pale white skin and the dark contrast of her bra. Fleur nearly salivated as she watched, completely spellbound, as Hermione drew her wand, and locked the door at her back and cast a silencing charm. She sauntered towards the Veela, who was powerless for the moment, and pushed her into the chair behind the professor’s desk.

“Professor Delacour,” Hermione began, her hands clasped in front of her. “I don’t understand, why have you called me here for remediation?”

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking quizzically at Hermione. They’d never discussed anything like role-play before, and although she wasn’t opposed to the idea, she wasn’t sure what Hermione expected.

“I’m living out a fantasy, just go with it,” the lioness returned before lowering her voice again. “I was under the impression that my spell-work was satisfactory,”

Fleur swallowed and grabbed the first idea that came to mind. “Your spell-work is flawless, Miss Granger, it’s your essays that I’m having trouble understanding, so I thought a verbal assessment would be more beneficial for you.”

Hermione held back a chuckle. It wasn’t exactly what she had been expecting, but she could work with it nonetheless. “A verbal assessment? How shall we begin?”

Fleur panicked internally before answering. “I believe getting comfortable is always the first step. Why don’t I help you out of these?” She hoped she was playing the part well enough, for the saw a flicker of amusement cross Hermione’s face. She came forward nonetheless, and the Veela helped her out of her underwear before she guided her to sit in her lap.

“I want you to tell me exactly where you want me, and how it feels when I touch you,” Fleur instructed, her mouth right beside Hermione’s ear. “Perhaps from there, we’ll be able to practice more on how other things make you feel, hm?” Hermione nodded against Fleur’s shoulder, and the blonde let her hands begin their wanderings. First they trailed over Hermione’s rib cage, and over her stomach, smiling a bit more each time she felt the muscles under her fingers tense from arousal. Even from where she was sitting, she could smell Hermione’s musk, and her mouth began to water. With the scent, her confidence increased tenfold, and she dragged her hands more surely over the brunette’s thighs and up to her skirt.

“This is a verbal assessment, Miss Granger; I haven’t heard anything from you yet,” Instantly, Hermione told her how warm her hands were, and how desperately she needed them on her sex. Fleur chuckled against her ear, and moved to her breasts instead. Her nipples were hard by the time she reached them, having rudely disregarded her bra, and Hermione couldn’t hold back a loud moan of pleasure as she traced over them with a single fingertip. Fleur smiled and abandoned her breast for a moment to pull her blouse away from her shoulder, giving herself free reign to mark the soft skin there before she returned.

Hermione arched into her hands and against her mouth, begging, “Please, Professor, bite a little harder,”

Fleur complied, and gently scratched her nails over Hermione’s stomach when she jerked in her lap. She made her way down to Hermione’s thighs, massaging them gently. The brunette opened her legs readily, panting into Fleur’s ear as she yearned for more contact. She bucked under the Veela’s hands as they trailed along the insides of her thighs, before coming to rest just at the apex.

“Tell me what you want, Miss Granger,” Fleur whispered against her shoulder.

Hermione whimpered as she began to pull away. “I want you inside me, Professor.”

Fleur chuckled behind her, but met her request nonetheless. The brunette was practically dripping as Fleur first brushed over her sex, her hips eager to take her as they met her thrust. Hermione moaned loudly, continuing to rock herself against Fleur’s hand as she tangled her fingers in the blonde tresses at her shoulder. The Veela’s attention was divided between marking the witch in her lap and the ministrations given by her hand as she moved almost languidly between her legs. Hermione’s voice never raised in complaint, only praise as she lost her grasp of English and held fast to moans and breathless whimpers.

Fleur decided a new approach halfway through, and slowed her pace. Her other hand joined the first and put gentle pressure on Hermione’s clit, keeping her rhythm painfully slow. Hermione reluctantly slowed her own thrusts, but she did not question what Fleur was teaching her. She could feel herself approaching the pinnacle, and despite such a slow buildup, it crashed over her without warning as Fleur continued her determined, slow thrusts. Hermione writhed on her lap, riding her orgasm as long as Fleur kept moving against her and inside her, until she turned her head against the Veela’s neck and shuddered with a final burst of pleasure.

The blonde slowly withdrew, and held Hermione close to her chest, smiling as spasms shook her form. Her breathing was uneven and her pulse erratic, but she burrowed into Fleur’s neck with a smile and sighed heavily.

“Was my assessment to par, Professor?” she managed, breathless.

Fleur chuckled under her. “I believe it was satisfactory. However, it might be beneficial if we continued these little verbal tests, don’t you think?”

“I rather enjoy them myself, Professor,” Hermione returned with her own chuckle.

“Shall we get you up to bed then?” Fleur asked, breaking role.

Hermione looked up at her before she shimmied down to the floor on her knees before the Veela. “I have to thank my tutor for taking the time out of her busy schedule to help me along, don’t I? I’m afraid I’m exhausted, so it’ll be quick, but I think it’ll serve as a very suitable thank-you nonetheless.”

Fleur had to school her features as she lifted her hips to allow the brunette to strip her of both jeans and underwear, tucking them beneath her knees for comfort before she pulled Fleur to the very edge of the chair. She forced the Veela’s legs apart and took to laying gentle kisses all the way up her thighs. Hermione knew she was more than ready, but took her time in arriving to her sex in the hope that Fleur would hurry her. She got her wish as the Veela lost her fingers in her hair, and forced her to her sex. Hermione kept to her word and worked quickly.

She knew the blonde’s favorites very well and used them to the utmost extent; a long, slow stroke with her tongue along the length of her sex, followed by a gentle kiss; a series of quick lashes against her clit before slowing again, dipping her tongue inside her before returning to bring her clit into her mouth with her lips. Fleur was thrashing above her, her back arched as far as she could manage with loud moans pouring from her mouth. Her hips bucked against Hermione’s mouth, and soon she was screaming in French as orgasm took her.

She was still panting by the time Hermione had finished lapping against her sex, collecting every ounce of essence Fleur had to offer her. She kissed her gently, shivering as the Veela parted her lips to taste herself.

“Sweet as always, love,” Hermione murmured. “I wish I could have taken my time, though.”

“I don’t think I would have survived that,” Fleur said with a laugh. Hermione sat up on her knees and nuzzled the blonde gently, kissing along her neck.

“If you can walk, I’d love to get to bed,”

Fleur hummed softly and forced herself from the chair, righting her clothes and what she could of her hair before she set to clearing the classroom of any evidence they had been there or what they’d done. Hermione rolled her eyes and pocketed her underwear, knowing damn well it was the last thing she needed to casually turn up in the floor of a classroom. She deftly buttoned her shirt, and straightened her hair to some degree, before the two of them slunk through the common room where the celebration was still in full-swing. A few students asked them where they’d gone, but they gave different excuses each time, before they finally collapsed into bed.

“So, Professor Delacour, huh?” Fleur asked, chuckling.

Hermione elbowed her. “Don’t try to act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Oh I did,” the blonde returned. “Just curious where the idea came from,”

Hermione shrugged against her. “Just a thought,” she gave a wide yawn and snuggled close to her Veela, sighing happily. “We’ll have to talk about it more later because I won’t be conscious in three minutes.” Fleur chuckled, and tightened her arms around the other witch. They bid their nightly wishes, and fell to sleep.


	8. Slughorn's Christmas Party Debacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again readers! Sorry for the day late update, my Fridays (week) have become a bit more hectic with the holiday season. But I do hope you all are enjoying the story so far and are excited because soon Regina shall return :3. As usual, if you find any typos/errors please let me know (indiefox) so I can correct them :D

 

Christmas was fast-approaching, and as it came, Ron entered into a deeper level of physical contact with Lavender than he’d ever experienced before. Lavender seemed to think that every moment she did not spend kissing Ron was a moment wasted, and that left Harry along with Hermione and Fleur most evenings in the common room or the library.

“Were we ever like that?” Hermione asked, glancing to Harry.

“No,” he returned, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, the two of you have always been more… conservative when it comes to these sorts of displays, something I’ve never thanked you for. You’re far more graceful, as well.”

Fleur cocked her head to the side, blatantly studying the two interlocked Gryffindors. “What kind of technique is that?”

“I don’t think that is one,” Harry said with a grimace.

“Nothing like I’ve ever heard of. The girls in Beauxbaton’s would talk about different styles of kissing, but “let’s see how much saliva we can exchange” was never discussed.”

Hermione and Harry had to choke their laughter down. Fleur turned away, shaking her head.

“You’re also French, darling, certainly the French technique is more refined,”

Fleur lifted her shoulders indifferently. “You’re the only data I have to go on, so if you say so, I suppose it’s true.”

“Come one, guys, this has never happened to him before,” Harry said, returning loyalty to Ron. “So long as he’s happy,”

“Oh, I’m not questioning that,” Hermione said at once, rising to defense. “Just that we might need to have a chat about it sometime. Speaking of a chat, Harry, you and I need to have one as well. I’ve been hearing a lot of talk in the girls’ toilets about who you’ll be taking to Slughorn’s Christmas party. Everything from seduction to love potions from Fred and George’s shop.”

“Wait a moment, how are they getting love potions? Filch banned anything from their shop! More than that, why didn’t you confiscate them?”

Hermione sighed. “Since when has anyone cared about what Filch bans? Besides, I saw them when we went to their shop over the summer; they’re disguised as perfumes or cough potions, it’s part of their Owl Order Service. As for your second question, they didn’t have the potions on them at the time.”

Harry studied the floor in deep contemplation. “But if Filch is being fooled by the potions, then Malfoy could have gotten the necklace owled in, too!”

Fleur shared Hermione’s sigh. “Harry,” she started. “Listen. Filch checks the packages the owls bring in with the Secrecy Sensors, Tonks and I helped show him how to use them in the beginning of the year. They pick up Dark objects and magic, and I’m sure that necklace would have set off some protective charm if it ever came on campus through the gate or through an owl. The Sensors don’t focus on things like love potions because they’re not Dark, nor life-endangering.”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry said, remembering how Romilda Vane had batted her eyelashes at him during the Gryffindor celebration.

“Imagine what could happen if someone slipped either of us a love potion, Harry,” Fleur said, only half teasing. “we’d both be dead within the hour.”

Harry bit his lip and apologized softly, which was waved off by Hermione. “It’s not a problem for us, because first, we don’t take drinks from those we don’t trust, and second, we can smell when something’s off, so for the love of God, don’t take Romilda’s gillywater she’s about to offer you.”

“Wha—”

“Hi, Harry! Would you care for some gillywater?” Romilda asked sweetly, approaching him with visible confidence.

He glanced back at Hermione before politely refusing and thanking her.

“Well take these anyway,” she said, thrusting a box of chocolates into his arms. “Chocolate Cauldrons, they’ve got firewhisky in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don’t like them.”

“Oh, er, thanks, Romilda…” Harry managed, as the girl sauntered away, confidence still thick in her wake. Curiously, he looked between the two Veelas. “Are these safe?”

“Think that question over, Harry,” Fleur returned, lifting her eyebrows and glancing at the box.

“I don’t think it is, but I’d like an expert opinion.”

“Don’t eat them,” Hermione picked up, wrinkling her nose. “The box itself reeks of potion.”

   Harry sighed and pulled the box away from Hermione, hoping to relieve her senses. “They’re getting desperate… and all for Slughorn’s stupid little party.”

“The sooner you choose someone, the sooner they’ll leave you alone,”

“I doubt the female mind works like that…”

Fleur shrugged. “Not all of them, I assure you. Just ask someone you trust, go as friends, perhaps, it doesn’t have to be romantic.”

“And we’ll be there, so even if you do go stag, you’ll still have someone to talk to,”

Harry nodded, before he rose from his seat. “Well, if you think of anyone, let me know,”

“Luna Lovegood is very kind,” Fleur said instantly. “I’m sure she’d understand your predicament.”

Harry seemed to consider briefly. “You know, that’s not a terrible idea,”

Fleur gave him a smile and a mock hand salute before he turned and went on to the boys’ dormitories. The Veela traded a look with Hermione before they shared a high five.

“We should open a practice or something.” Hermione said with a grin.

“Oh I see it now, ‘The Delacour-Granger Firm—Miscellaneous Adventures, Minor Unfortunate/Unintentional Trouble-Making, and Split-Second Decisions That Somehow Garner the Results You Wish!’”

“Delacour-Granger?” Hermione asked with a devilish smile.

“Alphabetical order you see, love.”

“Ah,” Hermione chuckled, weaving her fingers through Fleur’s. “You really are the light of my life,” she said softly, bringing the blonde’s hand to her lips.

Fleur blushed darkly. “Where did that come from?”

Hermione shrugged. “Something about hearing our names hyphenated, I suppose,”

Fleur nodded with a wistful smile. “It’s getting late, love. I’ll see you tomorrow for the party, okay?”

Hermione nodded and captured Fleur’s lips gently, sighing against them. “I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of kissing you,” she murmured.

Fleur smiled against her. “You’ve always been a glutton for kisses, haven’t you?”

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, and stole another kiss.

The Veela cupped her cheek in her free hand and didn’t bother fighting back Hermione kept stealing kisses from her until she finally pulled away and wished her good night.

 

 

The next day at eight o’clock, Fleur met Hermione at the Great Hall wearing a fashionably cut and tailored suit with a pair of black heels and lips so red she ‘could kill a man,’ as she’d jested upon Hermione’s inquiry. Her hair flowed down her back in one long, thick braid, so neat and meticulous, Hermione couldn’t wait to lose her fingers in it. The lioness herself wore a black cocktail dress, her hair done up in a messy bun and flats shod her feet. Together, they caused quite the uproar when they arrived in Slughorn’s office, several people of whom correctly guessed their Veela affiliation, more others settled upon half-correct estimates of siren ancestry.

McLaggen, who was dressed similarly to Fleur, eyed Hermione from across the room, looking smug with himself as Fleur lifted her chin and wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist protectively. The Veela shot him a narrow-eyed glare, smirking when he caught her eye and scurried off. A low rumble sounded from Fleur’s chest, and Hermione patted her arm gently in understanding. Slughorn, oblivious, introduced them to several people, one of which was a vampire named Sanguini. He seemed bored and aloof, and somehow Worple, the wizard who accompanied him, maintained enough control over him to keep the peace.

Luna and Harry joined the party a few moments later, much to Hermione’s relief; she was certain Fleur wouldn’t hesitate to rip McLaggen’s head off if he so much as brushed against her in passing, so deadly was her glare. She’d been having to keep her Veela in check ever since she noticed the large male staring at her and the returned sneer and possessiveness from Fleur. She enjoyed having the Veela’s arm around her and, in a masochistic way, her desire to flaunt dominance. Hermione knew as well as Fleur that there was no competition, but McLaggen seemed to continue to think that there was and he was somehow still in the running. Hermione had even fanned the fire a bit, pressing close to Fleur’s side, rubbing circles at the small of her back, kissing her cheek occasionally. She could feel the Veela’s chest inflate with each touch, stroking her ego more than what was healthy.

But with Luna and Harry, Fleur found a distraction, although she kept up her air of dominance. Harry seemed oblivious, and Luna commented on it softly but did not elaborate, and soon Mr. Filch dragged in Draco Malfoy by the ear, claiming to have found him lurking about outside Slughorn’s door. Harry took immediate interest, while Hermione and Fleur sighed softly, knowing he’d be off to discover whatever secret Malfoy supposedly hid from everyone now, and knew that they would know themselves by the end of the night.

Although, upon closer inspection, she could see how haggard Malfoy appeared, as well as the grayish tinge his skin held and the dark shadows under his eyes. Snape appeared from Slughorn’s side and asked for a word with Draco. Hermione and Fleur took it upon themselves to make a show of distraction while Harry slipped away, inevitably to eavesdrop.

The two Veelas did not see Harry for the rest of the night, and politely covered for him, telling Slughorn that he had a weak stomach for mead and had to go lie down. The Potions master seemed disappointed, but questioned no further, and soon the two witches left themselves to celebrate the end of term in Hermione’s quarters.

 

It wasn’t until Christmas Day that they heard of what happened. The two had spent the earlier part of the day with both of their families joined together at Fleur’s cottage in Hogsmeade, as the young Veela insisted she play host. She surprised her mate, her guests, and even herself at the meal she made, and encouraged everyone to take home some of the bountiful leftovers. At dusk, after everything had been cleared away, tea finished, laughter shared and gifts exchanged, Hermione and Fleur made their way to the Burrow.

There, Harry recounted everything to Ron, Hermione, and Fleur. “After I left Slughorn’s, I had to check every classroom before I found the right one, but by the time I did they were halfway through their conversation. But what I did hear caught me off-guard.

“Apparently, Snape thought Malfoy had something to do with the necklace because Malfoy said Katie must have an enemy no one knows about and swore he had nothing to do with it. Snape must have tried to look into his mind, because he said ‘Aunt Bellatrix must have begun teaching him Occlumency and asked what he was trying to hide from his master—”

“So he is with You-Know-Who?” Ron asked, choked.

“Must be, he said, ‘I’m not trying to conceal anything from  _him,_ I just don’t want  _you_ butting in,’ and Snape seemed to think that’s why he’d been avoiding him all term.  _And,”_ Harry said before Ron could interrupt. “Snape said he made an Unbreakable Vow to Malfoy’s mother, to help him, and he kept asking him to tell him what he was doing and what he could do to help.”

“Snape wants to help Malfoy?” Ron breathed.

“Well, he’d have to,” Hermione said softly.

“Why’s that?” Harry asked.

“One cannot break an Unbreakable Vow and survive, Harry,” Fleur said. “If Snape vowed to help Malfoy, he either has to do so, or die.”

“What else did he say?”

“Snape berated him for going at it alone, and Malfoy said he wouldn’t have been alone if he hadn’t put Crabbe and Goyle in detention. But, what interesting with that is that Snape was worried about those two passing their O.W.L. for Defense Against the Dark Arts this time around, and Malfoy claimed it to be an act since it wouldn’t matter anyway. Snape returned with how important the act itself was and asked him where he would be without having kept up his own act so well.”

“Bloody hell,” Hermione murmured softly. “Keep an eye on him, Fleur,”

The Veela nodded. “It’ll be even closer now.”

“Shit,” Hermione muttered. “This can’t be good. So you never heard what Malfoy was doing?” Harry shook his head. Mrs. Weasley called for dinner, and without so much as a spoken word, the four pulled on masks of bliss and happiness, putting any thought to Malfoy or Snape out of their heads as they joined the Weasleys and a few Order members at the table.

Hermione had never noticed how much her appetite had changed, nor how much Fleur seemed capable of eating. Despite the large lunch the two had had, they filled their plates just as generously, and even took seconds. Mrs. Weasley was the first to comment on the change.

“Hermione, I meant to say something before summer finished, but you sure have grown a lot. And you’re eating more than I ever saw; I don’t think Ron ate so much in his life,”

Hermione chuckled. “I hardly doubt that, Mrs. Weasley. But yes, my metabolism has changed. Fleur and I have been a mated pair for about a year now, so I’m now Veela myself. A lot of changes have occurred, actually.”

Is that how it works?” Lupin asked, looking at Fleur with genuine interest.

“Yes. Hermione and I share a soul, and while she does not have Veela blood, the soul makes itself loudly known, as you can see,” she chuckled.

“Simply fascinating…” he murmured, looking between the two.

“And before you get started, Mrs. Weasley, Hermione and I have already discussed how we will conduct ourselves in your home. We have been and will continue to treat your hospitality with the utmost respect.”

Mrs. Weasley flushed darkly. “Why, I appreciate that, Fleur, thank you,” The Veela dipped her head.

After the eggnog had been passed around, Mrs. Weasley nearly sent the whole pitcher flying as she yelled, “PERCY!”

Sure enough, Percy Weasley entered the dining room, followed by the Minister of Magic himself. “Oh, Percy, how wonderful it is to see you!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “Please, come in, Minister, have some turkey or pudding—”

“Oh that’s quite all right, ma’am, I’d hate to intrude,” Rufus Scrimgeour said earnestly. “We were in town, working, you see, and Percy just couldn’t resist dropping by to see you all!” Every inch of Percy’s demeanor suggested the total opposite, as he half-heartedly returned his mother’s embrace and seemed dead-set on looking everywhere except his family. Once, he met Fleur’s gaze, and realized his mistake as he quickly looked away. Although he had not trespassed against the Veela personally, she still found his lack of loyalty sickening. More than that, she considered the Weasleys family herself, even if the sentiment was not returned, though she highly doubted it wouldn’t be.

“…We’ve only looked in for five minutes, so I’ll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don’t want to butt in! Well, if anyone cared to show me your charming garden… Ah, that young man’s finished, why doesn’t he take a stroll with me?”

The already-tense atmosphere thickened instantly. Hermione and Fleur locked Scrimgeour in their hard gazes while everyone else looked between Harry and the Minister. The large man met their stares and from where she sat, Hermione watched his hair bristle. Whether he consciously knew it or not, his body picked up on the dangerous thrall emitting from the two Veelas, and set to readying its defenses. No one bought in to his pretense that he did not know Harry’s name or found it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister when Fleur, Hermione, George and Bill also had clean plates.

“Yeah, all right.” Harry spoke, breaking the silence.

He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour’s talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the reason they had come, so that the Minister could speak to Harry alone.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, as Fleur and Lupin both had half-risen from their seats. “Fine,” he repeated more firmly as they hesitated to take their seats again. Fleur complied after a long moment, never once taking her eyes off the Minister.

“Wonderful!” he boomed, opening the door for Harry as he passed. “We’ll just take a turn around the garden and Percy and I will be off. Carry on, everyone!”

As the door closed behind them, Hermione and Fleur remained completely still, hearing the whole of their conversation through the door.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time,” the Minister spoke after a few moments. “Did you know that?”

“No,” Harry returned.

“Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you. Natural, of course, natural, after what you’ve been through… Especially after what happened at the Ministry…”

He seemed to pause, waiting for Harry to say something. Harry did not entertain this notion.

“I have been hoping for an occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but Dumbledore has—most understandably, as I say—prevented this.”

Another pause in which Harry did not raise his voice.

“The rumors that have flown around! Well, of course we both know how these stories get distorted… all these whispers of a prophecy… of you being the ‘Chosen One…’”

They were getting near it now, Fleur knew, as the Minister’s voice tightened.

“…I assume that Dumbledore had discussed these matters with you?”

Harry answered after a moment. “Yeah, we’ve discussed it.”

“Have you, have you… and what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?”

“Sorry, but that’s between us,” it took effort on Harry’s part to keep his voice light and friendly.

The Minister put forth the same effort. “Oh, of course, if it’s a question of confidences, I wouldn’t want you to divulge… no, no… and in any case, does it really matter whether you are the ‘Chosen One’ or not?”

Harry took his time before responding. “I don’t really know what you mean, Minister.”

“Well, of course, it would matter to  _you_ enormously,” said Scrimgeour with a laugh. “But to the Wizarding community at large…it’s all perception, isn’t it? It’s what people believe that’s important.”

Harry didn’t reply. Even from where Fleur sat, listening so intently all other sound was meaningless static in her subconscious awareness, she knew where the Minister was driving the conversation, and Harry wasn’t helping him. She smiled inwardly at the observation.

“People believe you  _are_ the ‘Chosen One,’ you see,” Scrimgeour continued. “They think you quite the hero—which, of course, you are, Harry, chosen or not! How many times have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now? Well, anyway,” he pressed on, not waiting for a reply. “The point is, you are a symbol of hope for many, Harry. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be  _destined,_ to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—well, naturally it give people a lift. And I can’t help but feel that, once you realize this, you might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost.”

Fleur’s lips twitched upwards to bare her teeth. Hermione mirrored her at her right. Harry was silent for a long time. Finally, the Minister spoke again, apparently sharing whatever undoubtedly held Harry’s attention.

“Funny little chaps, aren’t they? But what say you, Harry?”

“I don’t exactly understand what you want,” Harry said slowly. “‘Stand alongside the Ministry’… What exactly does that mean?”

“Oh, well, nothing onerous, I assure you,” the Minister said quickly. “If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impression. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak with Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge had told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could certainly be arranged very easily….”

Fleur and Hermione snorted at the same time, and it took their combined willpower to remain seated.

“So basically,” Harry said, anger lining the undertone of words, audible only to Hermione and Fleur. “You’d like to give the impression that I’m working for the Ministry?”

“It would give everyone a life to think you were more involved, Harry,” Scrimgeour said, sounding relieved that Harry understood. “The ‘Chosen One,’ you know… It’s all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening…”

“But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,” Harry continued, forcing a friendly edge to his voice. “Won’t that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry’s up to?”

“Well,” said Scrimgeour, a frown evident in his voice. “Well, yes, that’s partly why we’d like—”

   “No, I don’t think that’ll work,” said Harry pleasantly. “You see, I don’t like some of the things the Ministry’s doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance.”

Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment, but when he did, his voice was much harder than it had been before. “I would not expect you to understand. These are dangerous times and certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old—”

“Dumbledore’s a lot older than sixteen and he doesn’t think Stan should be in Azkaban either.” Harry said evenly. “You’re making Stan a scapegoat just like you want to make me a mascot.”

When the Minister spoke next, it was without pretense of warmth. “I see. You prefer—like your hero Dumbledore—to disassociate yourself from the Ministry?”

“I don’t want to be used.”

“Some would say it’s your duty to be used by the Ministry!”

“Yeah, and others would say it’s your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison!” Harry returned, his temper flaring. “You’re doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Wither we’ve got people like Fudge, pretending everything’s lovely while people get murdered right under his nose, or we’ve got you, chucking the wrong people in jail and trying to pretend you’ve got the ‘Chosen One’ working for you!”

“So you’re not the ‘Chosen One’?” Scrimgeour asked scathingly.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” Harry returned with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” the Minister said quickly. “It was tactless—”

“No, it was honest,” Harry interrupted. “One of the only honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you’re winning the war against Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister.

“I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.”

They stood in silence for several long moments, no doubt staring the other down. Fleur bit her cheek to keep still.

Finally, Scrimgeour spoke. “What is Dumbledore up to? Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?”

“No idea,” Harry said swiftly.

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Well then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out by other means.”

“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave Dumbledore alone if I were you.”

There was a long pause.

“Well it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you. Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you Potter?”

“Yeah, I am. Glad we straightened that out.”

Within moments, he stood inside the kitchen again, his face wind-bitten from chill. He met Fleur’s eyes first, then Hermione’s. He nodded subtly.

“Percy, I believe the Minister is taking his leave.” Fleur said at once, without looking to the man in question. He said quick good-byes, and scurried out the door without so much as looking back.

 


	9. Horcruxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my darlings! Dear God, it feels like ages since I last spoke to you all! It's Regina, back again for a short spell. Well, let me catch you all up on my life thus far. Basic training is nearly over, only a week of training left before practice for graduation starts. It wasn't nearly as hard as I expected it to be, but it certainly wasn't a cakewalk. As much as I'm not looking forward to returning, I do sorely miss the family I feel I left there. Basic has totally rebuilt my body, pictures will be available on my Tumblr for those interested in any before/after comparisons, and I feel fantastic. I also got married! Pictures are currently available on Tumblr if you'd like to check those out. Other than that, Christmas hasn't been terribly interesting, and the family hasn't pulled any bullshit, which is weird for them, but, hey, I'll take it.  
> Now, to address some concerns. For those of you who are worried about my story's word-for-word following of the book, I do apologize, but the point I want to make with this fic is how easily the Fleurmione paring could have worked in cannonverse. I understand it can be dry and boring, it certainly was for me while writing it. HBP, in my own opinion, was dry and boring on its own, but despite this, still gave massively important details and events, of which need build up and provide a tactful forefront to work behind, so try as I might, I cut as much out as I possibly could. Unfortunately, it wasn't much, but, the Deathly Hallows portion of Kingdom is scheduled to start soon, and there, I promise, no, I swear, shit gets super real. Like, hella real. So, whereas the previous chapter may have been bland and lacking in Fleur/Hermione interaction, I promise you I make up for it. And the book-humping all but completely stops once we get to the Deathly Hallows. I still follow basic events, but they're only used as structure, not the bones and flesh of the work. Ask my amazing beta. She knows what's what.  
> For the other, less encouraging comments, I offer my most sincere apologies for failing to meet your expectations. Please understand that not every chapter can be filled with sheer finesse or power, or completely correct grammar, and please understand the time-frame in which I cranked out over a hundred-thousand words. I started writing Kingdom at the end of June and I left for basic in the middle of October. I busted my ass trying to get beyond the dull settings and events of the Half-Blood Prince to focus on the more easily manipulated events of the Deathly Hallows and so that there would be something for you all to read while I was away. Though it is no excuse for a half-assed job, which I do not feel I did, I will rectify it as soon as I have the time and resources to so, furthermore, I will make every effort possible to enhance your experience by spending more time and focus on future chapters, as well as those already posted. I hope you all with stick with me and my story, or at least give the following chapters a chance.  
> For those of you who left encouraging messages, I thank you a million times, and I promise you the best is yet to come. I hope all of you have had a wonderful holiday season and you enjoy this next chapter. Be on the lookout for another following it, I might be feeling generous since it's Christmas time. There's more Fleur/Hermione interaction here, though there's no sexy-time (sorry, guys).  
> Until next time, lovelies, and happy holidays,  
> ReginaCorda

A few days later, the three Gryffindors returned to Hogwarts, where Hermione was greeted by an announcement for Apparation lessons, which she was already qualified to take since she’d turned seventeen in September. Lavender promptly flung herself into Ron’s arms upon seeing him. Harry rolled his eyes and joined Hermione in signing up for Apparation lessons.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, trying to ignore the sucking noises emitting from Lavender. “Dumbledore gave me something to give to you,” she pulled a scroll from her pocket. Harry unrolled it hastily.

“It’s the next lesson; it’s tomorrow night,”

“Sounds like it’s important, if it’s that soon.”

Harry nodded, and the next day, the two of them were subjected to millions of questions regarding Side-Along Apparation. Nearly every sixth year was obsessed with how it felt, and what it had looked like. Without fail, they were asked fifteen questions in each class about it.

When evening finally fell, Harry gathered his things to meet Dumbledore.

“Shall I wait up?” Hermione asked, scribbling at an essay.

Harry shrugged. “If you like. I don’t know how long it’ll be,”

The lioness smiled warmly. “I’ll see you when you get back, then.”

 

It was nearly one in the morning when Harry returned to the common room. Hermione sat in the overstuffed armchair before the fire in loose sweatpants and light blue shirt bearing the Beauxbaton’s crest, her hair tied up in a messy bun. A mug of tea floated midair at her side and a book in her lap. She looked up when the Harry sat down on the sofa in front of her, folding a page down to keep her place and looked expectantly at Harry.

Riddle had been obsessed with his parentage during his years at Hogwarts, and seemed desperate to find his father’s name on the shields in the trophy room or along the record of prefects in the school records. He came to the realization that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts, and abandoned his name shortly thereafter and took up the identity of Lord Voldemort. He began researching his previously despised mother’s family, whom he thought could not have been a witch if she’d succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death. He followed the name ‘Marvolo’ all the way back to Slytherin himself, and finally, Dumbledore instructed Harry into the Pensieve.

The memory had been dark at first, but as his eyes adjusted, Harry could make out that the place in which he stood was filthy. It was the Gaunts’ house, covered in dirt and grime and cobwebs. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown, Harry could see neither nose nor mouth. He was slumped in the armchair by the fire, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he was head.

A loud knock sounded at the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in the other. The door creaked open to admit a young, handsome Voldemort holding an old-fashioned lamp. He couldn’t have been very far into his teens, but as his eyes roved around the house, fear or nervousness did not betray him.

“YOU!” the man bellowed. “YOU!” and he drunkenly hurtled at Riddle, wand and knife held up.

_“Stop.”_

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into a table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle while he contemplated him silently.

 _“You speak it?”_ the man asked at last.

 _“Yes, I speak it,”_ Riddle returned. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. His face only showed emotions of disgust and disappointment.

_“Where is Marvolo?”_

_“Dead. Died years ago, didn’t he?”_

Riddle frowned.  _“Who are you then?”_

_“I’m Morfin, ain’t I?”_

_“Marvolo’s son?”_

_“’Course I am, then…”_

Morfin pushed the hair out of his eyes, and Marvolo’s black-stoned right glittered on his finger.

 _“I thought you was that Muggle,”_ Morfin whispered.  _“You look mighty like that Muggle.”_

 _“What Muggle?”_ Riddle asked sharply.

 _“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,”_ Morfin said, and spat unexpectedly on the floor between them.  _“You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, in ‘e? He’s older’n you, now I think on it…”_ Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, clutching the table for support.  _“He come back, see,”_ he added stupidly.    

 Voldemort gazed at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Finally, he asked,  _“Riddle came back?”_

 _“Ar, and left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!”_ Morfin said, spitting on the floor again.  _“Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?”_

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself in to a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted,  _“Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It’s over, innit… it’s over…”_

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward.

 

“…And then everything went black,” Harry said, heaving a sigh.

“That’s it?” Hermione asked incredulously.

“Dumbledore said it was because that’s all Morfin remembered about the encounter. But, the next morning, when he woke up, Marvolo’s ring was gone, and there were three bodies found in the Riddle manor house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father. The Muggles didn’t know what happened, but the Ministry did, and went straight to Morfin, who confessed to the murders. He handed over his wand, which was proved to have been the one that had been used to kill the Riddles. He was sent to Azkaban, saying over and over again how his father would kill him for losing his ring, and died there.”

“So Voldemort killed the Riddles using Morfin’s wand…”

“Dumbledore said he Stupefied his uncle, then performed some complex magic to create a false memory.”

Hermione watched the flames dance in the hearth for a moment. “How did Dumbledore come across this memory if Voldemort placed a false one in front of it?”

“He said he had to coax it out with Legilimency,”

She nodded. “Right. You said there were two memories he showed you?”

Harry nodded, rubbed his eyes, and launched into the second memory.

The image of a much younger Horace Slughorn surprised him. The professor had a full head of sleek, shiny, straw-colored hair. His moustache wasn’t quite so massive, and was gingery-blond. He wasn’t quite as round as the one currently teaching in Hogwarts, but the brass buttons on his waistcoat were still taking quite a bit of strain. His little feet rested on a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, a glass of wine in one hand while the other rifled though a box of crystalized pineapple.

Half a dozen boys were gathered in Slughorn’s office, all in harder or lower seats than his, all in their mid-teens, and Voldemort was easily recognizable. His was the most handsome face, and he looked the most relaxed out of all the boys. A black-stoned ring lay on his finger, confirming Harry’s fleeting thought that he’d already killed his father.

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” Voldemort asked.

“Tom, Tom, if I knew, I couldn’t tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though he ruined the effect by winking. “I must say, I’d like to know how you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him adoring looks.

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite—”

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, saying,  _“You’ll go wrong, boy, mark my words.”_

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had arrived. As small golden clock on Slughorn’s desk chimed the eleventh hour, startling Slughorn.

“Good gracious, that time already? You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” Slughorn detached himself from his chair and carried his empty glass to his desk as the students filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. He dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.

“Look sharp, Tom,” Slughorn said, turning around and seeing him still present. “You don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect…” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something,”

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away…”

“Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?”

And it happened all over again. The room filled with the dense, white fog, leaving no token to anything else in the room, other than where Dumbledore stood beside him. Then, Slughorn’s voice rang out again, angrily this time.

_“I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once, and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!”_

 

“That’s it?” Hermione asked, repeating herself.

“That’s it. Dumbledore said it had been tampered with; Slughorn purposefully altered it. He thinks it’s because Slughorn’s ashamed of what he remembers.”

“So, the memory’s still there, beneath the tamperings?”

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. “Yeah, and that’s what Dumbledore wants me to do: get the original memory.”

Hermione returned to staring into the fire again, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “Horcruxes… I swear they’ve been mentioned somewhere…”

“So you’ve heard of them?” Harry asked excitedly.

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing to lament. It was something generic, dry… just confirming them to be very Dark and very dangerous, although that’s not surprising, considering Voldemort’s the one in question here.”

Harry had to give her that one. “Right,” he said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “Well, I’m off to bed. Let me know if you think of anything else, yeah?”

“I’ll hit the books tomorrow,” she said with a smile. He nodded, and went up into the boy’s dormitories, while Hermione finished her tea before finally falling into bed, wishing for the first time she had her Time-Turner to catch up on sleep.

 

The next day’s Potion class was readily faced. Harry had told Ron about the Pensieve visit earlier in the morning, and Hermione had been strategizing ways to weasel the memory from Slughorn, to no avail. Harry decided to follow Ron’s more direct idea and wait to ask him after class.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed; one day, she’d write a book titled:  _All the Times Harry Potter Should Have Listened to Me but Didn’t._ Slughorn called the class to silence, and asked if someone could tell him Golpalott’s Third Law. Hermione’s hand hit the air, Ron mumbled about how some things never change, and she rattled off the answer without hesitation.

“Very good, ten points to Gryffindor! Now, if we accept that law as true…”

Within fifteen minutes, the class had settled into their books and cauldrons to prepare the antidotes for the poisons Slughorn had told them to identify. Hermione, still quite miffed at Harry’s continued dependence on the Prince’s notes, left him and Ron to their own devices, having practiced nonverbal spells to mastery majorly for this reason. By the time they had unceremoniously dumped their unidentified poisons into their cauldrons, she was already waving her wand over her own and separating the different ingredients into their own respective phials. She was just putting the finishing touches to her cauldron when Slughorn called the time.

He prowled up and down the aisles, looking into their cauldrons expectantly. He retched at Ron’s concoction, which emanated the smell of rotten eggs before he moved on to Hermione’s.

“Ah, I see you’ve finished! What is the antidote for your poison, hm?”

“Wolfsbane, Professor,” she returned.

Slughorn picked up the phial in which her poison had come from, and upon reading the number written there, let out a loud chuckle. “Aha, number six! Yes, indeed, wolfsbane was the correct antidote! Twenty points to Gryffindor!”

Then he moved to inspect Harry’s cauldron, which didn’t look much different than it did in the beginning. Curiously, he lifted an eyebrow at Harry.

“What about your poison, Harry?”

Wordlessly, Harry held out his hand. Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead and wondered why she didn’t think of it first. In his palm rested a small, shriveled, kidney-shaped stone. For a long moment, Slughorn stared down into Harry’s hand before he boomed a laugh.

“Oh, you’re like your mother… Well, I can’t fault you… A bezoar would act as an antidote to all these potions!”he thundered. "Very good, my dear boy, very good! It seems you come out at the top of the class again today!" he said, chuckling as the bell chimed and he dismissed the class. Hermione and Ron strode out of the dungeon, and waited patiently for Harry, where he was undoubtedly interrogating Slughorn as subtly as possible.

As Hermione expected, Slughorn flew from the dungeon angrily without pardoning himself when he shoved past Ron. While Harry brooded over the failed attempt to wrestle the memory out of Slughorn, she hit the library.

That evening, after her shift at Gringott’s, Fleur found the lioness pouring over books. She chuckled softly and seated herself beside a mountain of tomes, waiting for Hermione to realize her presence. Finally, she looked up with a frustrated grumble, and reached for another book before she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Fleur! Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack!” she threw her arms around the Veela’s neck, apparently forgiving her for the near-death trauma. “What are you doing here?”

Fleur shrugged as she hugged Hermione in return, kissing her cheek. “Just thought I’d pop in for a bit, I wanted to see you. What are you working on here?”

Hermione sighed heavily. “Harry mentioned something that reminded me of something I’d heard about a long time ago, and I’m trying to find it now. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Horcruxes, would you?”

Fleur shivered as the hairs along the back of her neck stood at attention. “No, I haven’t, but the word itself doesn’t sound good. I could help you if you like,”

Hermione smiled, and pushed an untouched book to her. The two fell into a familiar silence of fire crackling and turning pages, broken occasionally by a sigh or question. Finally Hermione spoke up again.

“Fleur, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how is Tonks?”

The Veela sighed as she turned a page. “She’s doing better, I like to think.”

“Harry told me her Patronus changed a while back,”

“Yeah, it did.”

“Who?”

Again, Fleur sighed. “Remus, but he won’t do anything about it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and his…kind, if you will, rarely mate. I’ve been talking to him, but nothing seems to help.”

Hermione frowned. “Poor Tonks… Perhaps we should open that firm,”

Fleur chuckled as she began to read the last book on the table. “I’m sure it’ll work out soon enough, love—” she stopped suddenly as she focused intently on the book in her hands. “Hermione, listen to this, ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…’ Is that what you were looking for?”

Hermione rushed over to stand behind Fleur, skimming the page before she found the line. “That’s it?” she murmured, disappointed. “Of all the things this library has, it doesn’t have anything on Horcruxes?” she was crestfallen. The Hogwarts library had never failed her before, and now the most horrible books it had to offer lay sprawled out over the table without a shred of insight about the subject at hand.

Fleur reached behind her and pulled Hermione to rest on her shoulder. The lioness draped her arms over Fleur, unintentionally pressing her breasts to the Veela’s shoulders. She sighed heavily, and leaned her head against the Veela’s cheek.

“The library’s never failed before…”

Fleur kissed her hair. “Obviously this is something they don’t want you coming across. Would it be horrible of me to ask that you refrain from delving deeper?”

Hermione shrugged. “I’ll do what I can,”

The Veela rolled her eyes. “Promise me you’ll at least be careful.”

“Oh, I can always promise that,”

“Mmhm.” Fleur returned, lowly, nuzzling against Hermione. “Shall we get back to the common room, then? It’s getting late,”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “That’s a shame. I have another fantasy about the library…”

Fleur straightened. “Really now?”

Hermione shrugged. “Guess it’ll have to wait.” She swept the books off the table and returned them to the restricted section and lifted her bag. “Ready?” she said expectantly, looking at Fleur.

“You are a temptress,” the Veela muttered, rising as well. Hermione passed her as she left the library, a little extra swing in her step as she felt the Veela’s eyes on her.

Back in the common room, Hermione berated the boys on their lack of preparedness for their schoolwork, refusing to so much as touch their essays, while Fleur and Ginny played with Crookshanks. Around nine, Fleur rose to leave, kissed Hermione, and met the cold bellows of January. As soon as she was out of earshot, Hermione reported to Harry that the library had failed to contain anything of definition or direction of Horcruxes.

 

February came and melted the harsh snows of January, and soon the first Apparition, lesson was upon them. Hermione practiced diligently, and managed to Apparate to the hoop without splinching anything the fourth attempt. Susan Bones suffered the worst splinching incident, wobbling on one leg in her hoop while the other stood five feet away. The Heads of Houses instantly rushed over and put her back together again, but that didn’t calm her as she sobbed hysterically for the rest of the lesson.

The first of March was Ron’s birthday, and it was spent in a very unfortunate manner. The trip to Hogsmeade had been canceled, no doubt due to the cursed necklace fiasco of the last visit, but in the hospital wing nonetheless. Hermione rushed in once the news reached her, glad to see her friend was breathing comfortably in bed, although he was unconscious. Fred, George, Ginny and Harry were gathered with him, looking sullen and sad.

“What happened?” she asked upon approach.

“He got into those Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before Christmas. Apparently, they’d gotten more…potent, and I had to take him to Slughorn. After he fixed him an antidote, he poured some mead for us, Ron gulped his down and started seizing and foaming at the mouth. I had to use a bezoar to get him to level out.”

“Jesus Christ…” Hermione muttered. “And he’s stable now?”

“Pomfrey’s been working nonstop,” Ginny reported.

“Yeah,” Fred sighed. “Not the way we thought we’d be giving him his present,”

“When we pictured the scene, he was conscious,” George murmured.

“So the poison was in the drink?” Hermione asked.

“Had to be. Neither Slughorn nor I had drank any of it, just Ron,”

“Could he have slipped something in there, you think?” George asked.

“Could have, but why would he want to poison Ron?”

“Maybe it was meant for you, and he got the glasses mixed up,” Fred piped.

“But what if he’s innocent?” Ginny asked. “Could the poison had been meant for him?”

Harry shook his head. “He said he’d meant to give it to Dumbledore a while ago…”

“So it was meant for Dumbledore…” Hermione murmured. “Slughorn didn’t spike it. If it was meant for Dumbledore, and he knew there was poison in it, he wouldn’t have offered it as a pick-me-up to Ron because, obviously, it would have exposed him. And, clearly they don’t know Slughorn very well at all; I myself know that he would keep something tasty for himself, given the chance.”

The doors burst open to admit Hagrid, soaked to the bone from the onslaught of rain. “I jus’ got up fer dinner, bin in the forest all day with Aragog, didn’ hear the news till jus’ now! How is ‘e? Yer mum and dad here?” Hagrid asked, leaving large, muddy footprints in his wake.

“Yeah, they’re in Dumbledore’s office now, chatting,” George said.

“Jus’ terrible. Firs’ Katie, now Ron…”

“Think someone has it out for the Quidditch team?” Ginny asked suspiciously.

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I do know that neither the necklace nor the mead reached the intended target. Both were lethal, and it’s a streak of luck that no one’s dead. However, it raises a deeper, more concerning issue. Obviously, the perpetrator is immensely dangerous because they don’t seem to care how many people get taken out by their attempts.”

Before anyone could offer comment on this ominous theory, the doors opened again, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley joined the others in the room, crushing Harry into their arms.

“Dumbledore’s told us how you saved him with the bezoar,” Mrs. Weasley sobbed into his hair. “Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny… you saved Arthur… and now Ron…”

“Half our family seems to owe your their lives, now I stop to think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. “Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasley’s when Ron decided to sit in that compartment with you in your first year…”

Madame Pomfrey rose and reminded them that only six visitors were allowed at a time, so Hermione, Harry, and Hagrid all rose to take their leave and allow the Weasleys time to themselves.

Along the way to the Great Hall, they discussed the possibility of Hogwarts closing due to students being attacked like they had been when the Chamber of Secrets was open. It wasn’t until Hagrid slipped in his words that Harry took great interest.

“Why was Dumbledore angry at Snape?” he repeated.

“I never said tha’,” Hagrid amended hastily. “Look at the time, it’s getting; on fer midnight, I need ter—”

“Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?” Harry asked again loudly.

“Shhhhh!” Hagrid said, looking both nervous and angry. “Don’ shout stuff like tha’, Harry, d’yeh wan’ me ter loose me job?”

“What’s Snape done?”

“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn’ta heard it at all! I—well, I was comin; outta the forest the other evenin’, an’ I overheard ‘em talking—well, arguin’. Didn’t like to draw attention to meself, so I sorta sulked an’ tried not ter listen, but it was a—well, a heated discussion an’ it wasn’ easy ter block out.”

“Well?” Harry pressed has Hagrid shuffled his feet uneasily.

“Well—I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an’ maybe he—Snape—didn’ wan’ ter do it anymore—”

“Do what?” Hermione asked.

“I dunno, ‘Mione, It sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit over-worked, tha’s all—anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he’d agreed ter do it an’ that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his House. Well there’s nothin’ strange abou’ that!” Hagrid said hastily at the two Gryffindors’ alarmed expressions. “All the Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look into that necklace business.”

“But Dumbledore’s not having rows with other teachers about that, is he?” Harry asked stiffly.

“Look,” Hagrid sighed. “I know what yeh’re like abou’ Snape, Harry, an’ I don’ want yeh ter go readin’ more inter this than there is,”

“Look out,” Hermione said tersely as the shadow of Filch cast itself on the wall.

“Oho!” he wheezed upon seeing them. “Out of bed so late, this’ll mean detention!”

“No, it won’, Filch, they’re with me, aren’ they?”

“And what difference does that make?”

“I’m a ruddy teacher, aren’ I?” Hagrid boomed, before muttering out of the corner of his mouth to the other two, “Get goin’,”

They didn’t hesitate to obey as they scurried off in the direction of Gryffindor tower, Filch’s and Hagrid’s arguing chasing them up the stairs. McLaggen met them in the Common Room, and offered no interest in Ron’s condition. Hermione pushed by him, and went into her room to complete her homework. Meanwhile, Harry was subjected to both McLaggen and Lavender’s endless streams of questions concerning Quidditch and Ron’s feelings on whether or not he considered their relationship ‘serious.’ He was surprised when Lavender told him Ron was always asleep when she visited him in the hospital wing. Never once had he nor Hermione walked in to find Ron anything less than alert and utterly bored of the hospital wing.

“So Hermione Granger still visits him?” she asked, scandalized.

“Yeah,” Harry returned nervously. “She’s his friend isn’t she?”

“Oh no,” Lavender said, her voice lowering dangerously. “She only ever wants anything to do with him when he’s…  _interesting.”_

“Interesting?” he repeated. “Dear God, you can’t possibly think—”

“I don’t think Harry, I  _know.”_

“First off, how is being poison the same thing as ‘interesting’? And secondly, she’s mated to Fleur. You know, tall, blonde, blue-eyed Veela that comes here with her? Beauxbaton’s Champion for the Triwizard? She’s mated. She’s gay. She doesn’t want anything to do with Ron romantically—”

“Believe that all you want, Harry,” Lavender said, rising abruptly and left the room with a dignified flourish of her robes. Harry sighed, and shook his head, running a hand over his face.

On the morning of the Quidditch match, Harry had been forced to allow McLaggen to play Keeper in Ron’s place, and begrudgingly so. The game had been lost three hundred and twenty to Hufflepuff while Gryffindor lost with sixty. Harry, due to McLaggen’s terrible (if not lack of) judgment, and had suffered a cracked skull as a result of taking a Bludger point-blank.

When he came to, the sky was streaked with crimson, Ron was sitting upright in the bed beside him, and Hermione and Fleur sat in chairs at his bedside. He groaned softly, and reached up to feel his head with one hand.

“What happened?” he mumbled, trying to regain focus of his eyes.

“Cracked skull,” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling up pushing him back against his pillows. “Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I’m keeping you overnight. You shouldn’t overexert yourself for a few hours.”

Harry groaned angrily again. “I don’t want to stay here, I want to find McLaggen and kill him.”

“I’m afraid that would come under the heading of ‘overexertion,’” the Medi-witch returned sternly, her wand raised in a threatening manner. “You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster.”

Harry reluctantly settled in bed, and she bustled back into her office. “Brilliant.” He grumbled. “When I get hold of McLaggen—”

“Harry, you don’t want to get hold of him,” Fleur said reasonably. “He’s the size of a troll.”

“Has as much manners as one,” Hermione said lowly.

“Personally, I think hexing him with that toenail thing of the Prince’s is a sound solution,” Ron offered.

“For once, I won’t object,” Hermione muttered. “Even so, the rest of the team wasn’t happy with him either. I’m surprised Ginny didn’t end up in here,”

Harry turned to look at her with interest. “Ginny?”

“Oh yeah. If you thought her stunt of flying into Smith last game was her limit, you were sorely mistaken. Right after the Hufflepuff Seeker aught the Snitch, she took McLaggen out of the sky herself.” Harry’s skull protested as his eyebrows shot skyward.

“She also said you were nearly late for the game,” Fleur said.

“Really? You left here with plenty of time, Harry,” Ron offered.

“Well… I saw Malfoy sneaking off with a couple of girls who didn’t look like they wanted to be with him, and that was the second time he’s made sure he wasn’t down on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the school; he skipped the last match too, remember?” he sighed heavily. “Wish I’d followed him now, the match was such a disaster…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ron said sharply. “You couldn’t have missed a match to follow Malfoy, you’re the Captain!”

The door to the infirmary opened to admit McGonagall. Fleur rose dutifully and excused herself politely before following her outside with a whispered, “I’ll meet you in the common room,” to Hermione.

The Veela and deputy headmistress walked along the empty corridors in silence until McGonagall broke it first. “Your weekly report, Fleur?”

Fleur drew in a deep breath. “Evacuations for the tunnel leading to Germany have proved more complicated that we thought. There are some possible branches that could lead to other countries, perhaps, but the more troubling matter is what sleeps inside these tunnels. Bill and I have the only option of being chase out by them, then leading down through the vaults so that this ‘side-project’ isn’t found out and nothing is harmed or inhumanely handled.”

McGonagall nodded. “Very well. Anything else?”

“I am working on cracking down whomever is responsible for the necklace and the poisoned mead. So far, there’s not much to go on, other than what I’m sure you already know; Professor Slughorn is not to blame.”

“I’m well aware of that, Fleur,” she sighed heavily. “Thank you. You are dismissed.”

Fleur nodded and made her way back to Hermione in silence.

 


	10. A Shameful Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, darlings! I'm sorry to say that I'll be leaving again in a few days, but only for two weeks and then I'll finally graduate from Basic, leaving me free (to some degree at least) to update and write and hopefully finish this fic within the next few months. As mentioned earlier, I know these past few chapters have been especially dry and boring, but I'm happy to say things will change in the next chapter, appropriately titled 'Shit Gets Real Part Two.' I'm so sorry for the horrible boredom you've had to suffer through. One more chapter and it'll get better, I promise. I hope you all have a happy new year and stay safe, loves. Till next time.  
> Much love,  
> RC

The next week, Harry returned to Dumbledore’s office. He’d seen a house-elf’s memory, of her mistress’s meeting with Voldemort when he’d visited. Hepzibah Smith had possessed Helga Hufflepuff’s golden goblet, as well as Salazar Slytherin’s locket, the lost heirloom. After he’d left Hogwarts, Voldemort at first wished to return and teach, but the older headmaster believed him too young, and so he had taken up working in Borgin and Burkes. It was by his superior’s order that he ended up in Hepzibah’s home to begin with, to coax her into selling some of her precious and rare treasures. She’d made the mistake of showing Voldemort her two most treasured pieces, and was found dead two days later.

“So they blamed the house-elf?” Hermione asked, choked for breath.

“She admitted to tampering with the drink,” Harry said, shrugging. “The Ministry didn’t investigate further, but we think Voldemort altered her memory just like he did Morfin’s. But that’s not all. Dumbledore also showed me one of his own memories too.”

Dumbledore had become headmaster. Voldemort returned, ten years after the house-elf’s memory took place, and his face was oddly misshapen. His features seemed as though they were burned and blurred, though not as snakelike as his features had been when Harry saw him last. Gone was his former beauty, and in its place sat waxen, pale skin that seemed to be stretched over his bones, his face a mask that betrayed little emotion, and eyes that did not yet bear the crimson tinge they would one day hold, but they were cold, distant, and bitterly indifferent.

He returned to ask again for a teaching position. It was refused once again, while Dumbledore freely wielded knowledge of the Death Eaters. And it was then the curse of the Defense Against the Dark Arts post began.

 

 

The following Sunday, Harry was utterly focused on getting the final memory from Slughorn, and spent the evening pouring over the Prince’s book, desperate to find some spell or potion that could help him along the way. Hermione protested a few times before rolling her eyes and biting her tongue, unwilling to tell him the most reasonable and harmless variable to his success was hidden in upstairs in his trunk. Ron, however, was beside himself with worry over the upcoming Apparation Test scheduled for twenty-first of April in a heavily supervised area of Hogsmeade.

“But at least the two of you _can_ Apparate,” Ron insisted, hardly paying attention to his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. “And by July, you won’t have a problem, Harry!”

“I’ve only done it once,” Harry returned in an exasperated tone.

“Hermione, how do you spell ‘belligerent’?” he asked suddenly, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It can’t be B—U—M—”  

 “No, it isn’t,” the lioness replied, pulling his paper to her. “And ‘augury’ doesn’t begin O—R—G—either. What kind of quill are you using?”

“It’s one of Fred and George’s Spell-Check ones… but I think the charm’s wearing off,”

“It must be,” the lioness said with sigh as she pointed to the title of this essay. “Because we were asked how we’d deal with dementors, not ‘Dugbogs,’ and I don’t remember you changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”

“Oh no!” Ron exclaimed, horror-struck. “Don’t say I’ll have to write the whole thing out again!”

“It’s okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, already tracing patterns with her wand.

“I love you, Hermione,” Ron sighed, sinking back in his chair.

The lioness barked a laugh. “Don’t let Lavender hear you say that,”

“She doesn’t honestly still think—”

“Yeah, she does.”

“But you, and Fleur—”

“Apparently that’s a ploy,”

He sighed heavily. “I might let her hear it. Then she’d ditch me,”

“Why don’t you ditch her then?” Harry piped, still glued to the Prince’s book.

Ron shrugged. “The more I hint I want to end it, the tighter she holds on. It’s like going out with the giant squid.”

“You can tell her all you want, but don’t you dare think of bringing me into any plots.” Hermione warned, her wand tapping regularly against Ron’s paper. The silence engulfed them, broken only by the tapping, the crackling of the fire, and the occasional turning of a page, until Ron took his paper back to finish up the concluding paragraphs.

As Harry closed the Prince’s book, he noticed that the three of them were the only ones left in the common room. Suddenly, two loud _cracks_ sounded and Kreacher and Dobby both bowed low to Harry. Hermione jumped slightly, and Ron cursed as he spilled ink over his freshly completed essay. Hermione flicked her wand quickly and returned the ink to its well and the paper to its completed form.

“Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy was doing, so Kreacher has come to give—”

“Dobby has been helping, too, Harry Potter!” he squeaked before casting Kreacher a reproachful look. “And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!”

“Harry, what is this?” Hermione asked, still shocked from the sudden appearances.

“I… well, they’ve been tailing Malfoy for me…”

“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher.

“Dobby has not slept for a week!” Dobby said proudly, swaying where he stood.

“You haven’t slept, Dobby? Harry, surely you didn’t—”

“Of course I didn’t—Dobby, you can sleep, please do, in fact. Have you found anything out?”

Kreacher was the first to speak. “Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood. His features recall the fine bones of my mistress, and his manners are those of—”

“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” Dobby squeaked angrily. “A bad boy who—who—” Dobby shuddered from head to toe, and made a move that suggested he was about to throw himself into the fire. Ron managed to catch him and hold fast before he finally calmed enough to be released again.

“Thank you, Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters…”

“Anyway, the report,” Harry said, looking between the elves.

Kreacher bowed, looking furious. “Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of—”

“Dobby, you tell me,” Harry said impatiently cutting across Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn’t have?”

“Harry Potter, sir, the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular trips to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters—”

Harry suddenly hit himself in the forehead with his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._ “The Room of Requirement, of course! That’s where he’s been doing…whatever is it he’s doing! And I bet that’s why he’s been disappearing off the map—come to think of it I’ve never seen the Room of Requirement on there.”

“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there,” Ron offered.

“I think it’ll be part of the magic of the room,” said Hermione. “If you need it to be Unplottable, it will be.”

“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy’s doing?” Harry asked hopefully.

“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby.

“No, it’s not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got in to our headquarters last year, so I’ll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem,”

“But I don’t think you will, Harry,” the lioness spoke up. “Malfoy knew exactly how we were using the room, didn’t he, because that stupid Marietta babbled. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don’t know what the room becomes when he goes in there, so you don’t know what to ask it to transform into.”

“There’ll be a way around that,” Harry returned dismissively. “You’ve done brilliantly, Dobby.”

“Kreacher’s done well too,” Hermione said kindly, but Kreacher looked far from grateful, instead he adverted and locked his eyes on the ceiling above.

“The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear—”

“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You’d better go and get some sleep too, Dobby,”

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby happily, and he too disappeared.

“How good’s this?” Harry asked enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment Dobby departed. “We know where Malfoy’s going! We’ve got him cornered now!”

“But what’s with a ‘variety of students’?” the lioness asked. “How many people are in on it? You wouldn’t think he’d trust lots of them to know what he’s doing…”

“Yeah, that is weird…” Harry murmured, frowning. “I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn’t his business what he was doing… so what’s he telling all these…”

“Bloody hell,” Hermione breathed. She locked eyes with Harry and at once knew they thought the same thing.

“Of course! God, I’ve been so stupid!”

“What the hell is going on?” Ron asked, glancing between the two.

“Polyjuice Potion!” Hermione and Harry exclaimed together.

“The Polyjuice Potion from Slughorn’s first lesson!” Hermione continued alone. “It was in the dungeons—”

“Malfoy could have nicked it at any time! There aren’t a whole ‘variety’ of students, it’s just Crabbe and Goyle having taken the potion!” Harry said, jumping up and beginning to pace before the fire. “They’re stupid enough to do what they’re told, even if he won’t tell them what he’s up to…but he doesn’t want them seen lurking outside the Room of Requirement, so he’s got them taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people… those two girls I saw with him when he missed Quidditch—ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”

“So that girl’s scales that Hermione repaired,” Ron said slowly.

“Yes!” Hermione hissed. “Malfoy must have been in the room at the time so she—well, _he—_ dropped them to let him know it wasn’t safe to come out!”

“And that girl that dropped the toadspawn! We’ve been walking past him all the time without realizing it!”

“Even so,” Hermione said, calmer now, “That doesn’t solve the dilemma of how you’re going to get in the room to begin with. And, before you get any more carried away, might I remind you that your primary goal is to get the memory from Slughorn?”

Harry sobered instantly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I never said you wouldn’t, just… keep that in the forefront, okay?” she said softly. “Right now, that seems to be more important to Dumbledore.”

Harry nodded curtly, and soon, she headed up to her quarters, and fell asleep.

 

The day of their Apparation Test, a note arrived in a sunny corner of the courtyard in the form of messy, tear-splotched handwriting. Hagrid invited them to attend Aragog’s funeral at dusk, for the enormous arachnid had died the previous day.

“We can’t possibly go, with security tightened up so much…” Hermione murmured.

“You sneak into Hogsmeade all the time, don’t you?” Ron countered.

“No, I don’t actually. I haven’t gone to Fleur’s cottage since Christmas holiday; she always comes here instead. Anyway, Harry, with so many of us taking the test today, Potions will be next to empty, you should try to soften Slughorn up a bit,”

“Yeah,” Harry snorted. “Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It would be if you took that bloody Felix, now wouldn’t it?”

Harry’s face paled before color rushed back into it. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Hermione shrugged.

“How long have you had that idea?”

“Month and a half. I’ve dropped less-than-subtle hints before, but apparently you needed blatant.”

Harry looked down at the ground. The little bottle of golden potion had crossed his mind, but not in the way Hermione had described. Finally, he looked back up and met her gaze. “Fine, if Slughorn doesn’t talk, then I’ll try it with Felix later this evening.”

“Oh, shit!” Ron barked, and dove behind Hermione as a group of girls approached.

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “It’s not Lavender,” she said tiredly.

“Thank God…” Ron muttered, getting up from the ground. “Blimey, they don’t look happy, do they?”

“They’re the Montgomery sisters and of course they don’t look happy, didn’t you hear what happened to their little brother?”

“To be honest, I’m losing track of what’s happening to everyone’s relatives.”

“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. Rumor has it that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, he was only five and he died in St. Mungo’s, they couldn’t save him.”

“He died?” Harry asked, shocked. “But surely werewolves don’t kill, they just turn you into one?”

“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked unusually grave now. “I’ve heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.”

“What was the werewolf’s name?”

“Supposedly Fenrir Greyback,” Hermione returned softly.

“That’s the same maniac that was attacking kids, Lupin told me about him!” Harry said angrily, his face flushing. “And the same name Malfoy mentioned at Borgin and Burks…”

“Harry, you’ve got to get that memory,” Hermione murmured. “It’s all about stopping Voldemort, isn’t it? All these dreadful things that are happening are all down to him…” The bell sounded from its tower, and the three rose up dutifully.

“I’ll get it,” Harry assured her. “Go on to your tests, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

 

 

Potions passed with no success of gaining the memory from Slughorn. When the bell tolled, and the class was dismissed, Slughorn bustled out of the dungeons far too quickly for Harry to even attempt to sway him. He met Hermione and Ron for dinner, relaying the disappointing news, congratulated Hermione on passing her Apparation Test, and told Ron they would take it together the next chance they got. The time was passed by roundly abusing the test administrators; surely half an eyebrow wasn’t too terrible a Splinch?

By the time they returned to the common room, Harry was ready to take the liquid luck. Though he took only a measured sip, leaving plenty in the phial back in his trunk, he felt the effects immediately. Worlds of infinite possibility opened to him with a single swallow; what had first been unattainable, was now seemingly well within his reach, if not already trapped in his grasp. He grabbed his cloak, and hurried back into the common room, explaining that he had a really good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.

Ron and Hermione traded an alarmed look.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Harry called as he strolled to the portrait hold. “Or, rather, Felix does,”

 

 

It wasn’t until the next morning that Hermione saw Harry again. He looked haggard and utterly exhausted, stumbling into the Great Hall with barely five minutes left for breakfast. It wasn’t until Charms, with the _Muffiato_ spell preventing eavesdropping that he told Hermione and Ron of Slughorn’s most shameful memory.

It started out much the same as the tampered memory did. The boys were in Slughorn’s office late one night chatting, but when Slughorn ordered them to bed, only to find Voldemort still standing with him, black and gold ring glittering on his hand, the white fog did not encompass the room and block out the answer to the ever-important question, “What do you know about Horcruxes?”

Instead, Slughorn stared at Voldemort, thick fingers absentmindedly stroking the stem of his wineglass.

“Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” he asked. At once, it was incredibly obvious that Slughorn knew perfectly well this had nothing to do with schoolwork.

“Not exactly, sir,” Riddle returned. “I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.”

“No… well… you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” said Slughorn.

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry, I mean, if anyone could tell me, you could—so I just thought I’d ask—”

It was a very clever ruse, indeed, spun from what had to be a well-practiced master. Voldemort kept his expression carefully blank and void of greed, his voice inquisitive, interested.

“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at him. “Well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”

“I don’t quite understand how that though, sir,” Voldemort said, his excitement still carefully contained.

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” explained Slughorn. “And hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form…few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”

Riddle’s hunger was now apparent; his expression openly showing greed. “How do you split your soul?”

“Well,” Slughorn said uncomfortably. “You must understand that the soul is to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”

“But how do you do it?”

“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion—”

“Encase? But how?”

“There’s a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know!” Slughorn said, shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by flies. “Do I look as though I have tried it—do I look like a killer?”

“No, sir, of course not,” Riddle said quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend…”

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn gruffly. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these things… wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic…”

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, though—just out of curiousity—I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven—”

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case… bad enough to divide the soul…but to rip it into seven pieces…” he looked at Riddle as though he’d never seen him clearly before, and now sorely regretted entering into the conversation at all. “Of course,” he muttered after a long silence. “This is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic…”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Riddle returned swiftly.

“But all the same, Tom… keep it quiet, what I’ve told—that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’re chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it…”

“I won’t say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he turned to take his leave.

 

“So the diary had been a Horcrux?” Hermione asked quietly after Harry had finished his tale.

He nodded. “Yeah, and with his infatuation over the number seven, we think he made six Horcruxes, while the seventh part of his soul lives inside his body—the last piece to destroy after all the others. We also think he made Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup into Horcruxes too, but Dumbledore was sure the last known relic of Gryffindor’s was safe.”

“What about Ravenclaw?” Ron murmured.

“We don’t know, but he thinks it’s very likely that he tried to find a relic of hers to make a Horcrux out of as well. But, we’ve already destroyed two.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, the diary and Marvolo’s black ring. Dumbledore destroyed it, and that’s why his hand is withered. But he believes the snake, Nagini, is another Horcrux, too. He said if his calculation was correct, he was one short of the six he wanted by the time he came to kill me, but failed, and after that made Nagini one after he used her to kill an old Muggle.”

“An animal can be used?” Hermione questioned. “That sounds risky, to seal part of your soul inside something that acts and thinks for itself.”

“That’s what he said, but Voldemort apparently has a surprising amount of power over her,”

“Is that where he’s been going?” Ron asked suddenly. “Looking for Horcruxes?”

Harry nodded swiftly.

“So to summarize,” Hermione murmured, and began ticking things off her fingers. “The diary’s gone. The ring’s gone. The snake is a risky definite. The locket and cup are very likely candidates, and something belonging to Ravenclaw if not Gryffindor.”

Harry nodded again. “He said that after all his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort will be a mortal man again.”

“So… You’re going to be going with Dumbledore to hunt down the Horcruxes?” Hermione murmured.

“Yeah, we talked about it a little last night,”

“Blimey,” Ron muttered. “Sounds strange, just you and Dumbledore, instead of the three of us, eh?” he chuckled. “Guess it’ll be safer that way, though,”

Hermione bit her lip, nearly drawing blood. “Did he say when the two of you would go?”

“Nothing of the sort, yet,”

She nodded and shook irritably as Ron’s half-ignored wand began making snow fall around them. “At least try to pay attention,” she sighed, halting his random movements. Lavender Brown glared at the lioness through bloodshot eyes, and when Ron helped her in dusting off the snow from her robes, she burst into tears.

“The bloody hell happened to her?” Hermione asked, glancing nervously at Ron.

“We split up, last night,” he said softly. “After Harry left to go to Hagrid’s, and you went to bed, she stormed right up to me. It was bad while she was yelling, but at least I didn’t have to end it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If only she knew Fleur was in my room…” Ron seemed to choke on his own saliva, and Harry had to swallow his guffawing laughter. “Apparently, it was a bad night for romance for almost everyone,”

“What makes you say that? Your night must have been fantastic,” Harry managed, still chortling.

Hermione had to consciously keep her eyes from fluttering, but largely ignored Harry’s jest. “Ginny and Dean split up last night, too,”

Instantly, the mirth died from Harry’s face, and he seemed to have trouble keeping his features schooled. “How come?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Something really silly… she said he was always ‘babying’ her, helping her through the portrait hole, like she couldn’t manage herself. They’ve been rocky for ages, though, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long,” she sent Harry a knowing glance. Flitwick bobbed up to Ron, and asked him to demonstrate some charm or another.

Harry chose the moment to lean in close to Hermione and whisper, “Do you know something I don’t?”

“I do, actually,” Hermione muttered back. “You have two options, but you’re not sure which one to take; Luna or Ginny, right?” Shock crossed his expression before he flushed darkly. “I cannot tell which is forever, but attraction isn’t hard to see if you have two working eyes, Harry. But of course,” she raised her voice, now that Flitwick was gone and Ron’s attention had turned to her, “It raises a dilemma with Quidditch, now, doesn’t it?”

 

When they arrived back at the common room, Harry found that Quidditch was certainly not a dilemma any longer. Katie Bell had returned from St. Mungo’s, her memory tattered, but strong and healthy all the same. Dean took his dismissal from the team with a stoic expression and a shoulder shrug, but Harry was pleased enough.

“I think I’m going to take another swig of Felix and have another go at the Room of Requirement.”

Hermione sighed and said nothing for it had all been said before. Harry, however, never got the right chance to try, for everyone was ecstatic about the upcoming Gryffindor/Ravenclaw Quidditch game, and his own attention was divided by what Hermione had said in Charms.

It was all for naught, however, because in his endeavor to catch Malfoy in the act of whatever it was he was doing, Harry had cursed him with one of the Prince’s hexes, which had caused large wounds to open all over his body, leaving him very nearly depleted of blood. Moaning Myrtle, the witness to the act, took it upon herself to spread the word to every bathroom. As punishment, Snape ordered him to detention every Saturday until the end of term, leaving Gryffindor without a Captain and left him no choice but to appoint Ginny Seeker for the match, and Dean would take her place as Chaser.

 

 

Hermione waved encouragement to Harry as he disappeared into the dungeons as she made her way to the Quidditch pitch, dressed in Gryffindor colors. She even brought her banner with her, undeterred even if Harry would be absent. Fleur met her at the doors, linked their elbows, and strode out into the brisk wind.

 

After the match, the Gryffindor common room was stunned into silence as Ginny threw herself into Harry’s arms, and as he kissed her without thinking. Several people wolf-whistled, Dean held a shattered glass in a bleeding hand, Romilda Vane looked like she was about to throw something. Fleur only chuckled as Hermione handed a silver Sickle to her.

Ron wore the expression of one who’d just been clubbed over the head. Harry beseechingly met his eyes, and after several long moments, he gave a small nod of his head. Harry beamed happily and squeezed Ginny in his arms.

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to win the championship and lose a bet to you within the same hour,” Hermione laughed, pouring more butterbeer into a glass.

“I did,” the Veela returned, bumping her with a hip.

“Why don’t you shut it?” Hermione retorted, batting playfully at her.

The Veela only skirted away, and rejoined in the festivities, while Harry and Ginny quietly exited the common room for a walk around the ground.


	11. Shit Gets Real Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I apologize for my sudden disappearance, but AIT has taken over my life. HOWEVER, I have started writing the final chapter of Kingdom. It'll be slow, given the mountainous amount of work I have to do for school, but it will be done! Now, due to this increased workload, I am giving my beta free reign to update and beta. I might pop up every now and then, drop a line or two, but for the most part, my focus will be on class. I'm dearly sorry, loves. Please feel free to message me, I do check my inbox regularly from my phone, but wifi is much harder to come by. In any case, I hope you enjoy this next chapter and anticipate future ones. Hopefully I'll talk to you all again soon. Till then, happy reading!  
> Much love,  
> RC  
> PS  
> Please forgive my French. I did what I could with google translate.

After Ron’s easy acceptance of Harry and Ginny’s mutual feelings, Harry’s life grew more bearable, despite his Saturdays spent in the dungeons with Snape. Hermione said nothing when he complained of going, instead shot him a few glares with an arched eyebrow, until he said nothing at all about it, nor did she so much as breathe the words, _I told you so_ after Malfoy had been released from the hospital wing in good health again.

It was the evening after one of these dungeon detentions that a scroll came from Dumbledore, urging Harry to report to his office at once. He returned within the span of a quarter-hour, and Hermione leaped out of her chair. She paced ramrod straight while Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak, and when he returned, nearly demanded she accompany him.

“Hermione, I’ll be perfectly safe with Dumbledore,” he reasoned hastily. “Besides, what would Fleur say if you ran off to trouble again without so much as telling her?” The lioness visibly deflated, and Harry took her moment of silence to produce two items from his robes. “Here, take these,” he said, urgently pressing an old parchment into Hermione’s hands and a pair of rolled up socks into Ron’s. “We’re going to a cave Voldemort went to in his youth where he bullied two other children; Dumbledore thinks there’s a Horcrux inside. On my way to his office before, I saw Trelawney coming out of the Room of Requirement, bitching about how someone had thrown her out of it after she’d heard them laughing and celebrating. Inside the socks is my phial of Felix; I want you to share it between yourselves, and Ginny too.

“Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy has the perfect opportunity to finish whatever’s going on, and I’m _positive_ that’s who Trelawney heard inside. Watch Malfoy and Snape on the map, and round up any D.A. members you can, if the charms still work. Call Fleur,” Harry said, locking Hermione in his gaze. “Dumbledore’s put extra security on the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know how to get around them, but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on watch. Tell Ginny goodbye for me will you?”

And with that, he was out the door.

Hermione stood frozen, while Ron pulled the phial form the socks with wonder and amazement. Fear gnawed at Hermione’s stomach, encouraging a foul mix of anxiety and chemicals to wash through her bloodstream. Finally, she pulled herself from her stupor, drew her wand, and cast the silver lioness. The opaque feline bounded away, through a wall of the common room, and off to Hogsmeade, while Hermione herself chased after Harry. She burst outside of the castle’s doors, only to have the wind frighten away the last traces of Harry’s signature scent.

While she stood, unsure of what to do, Fleur’s lioness reached her long before the Veela herself, who took the other into her arms. The sky had reddened to crimson by the time they went back inside, and all but sprinted back to Gryffindor tower. Urgency had filled the space between them, but despite it, Fleur took leadership over the assembled members of the D.A. 

“We must account for reasonable doubt,” Fleur said before the group. “As far as we know, an attempt could be made. What of, we know not, however, our current mission relies on poise, diligence, tact, and the understanding that an attempt might not be made at all. You are to watch, you are to report, you are to act naturally. If you see this lioness,” she called her Patronus, “Get the youngest students back to this common room _immediately_.” She placed so much stress on the word, shivers ran down nearly every spine. Her voice, however, never wavered. “I don’t care if they’re from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin; this is your school and they are your family. If there is to be a fight, I want only the members of Dumbledore’s Army amongst it. Does everyone understand?”

There was a murmuring of consent amongst the group. The Veela nodded once, and continued giving orders and commands, appointing leaders, sorting the others into groups, and appointing others still to report to various bathrooms to collect the D.A. members of other houses. They were told of the castle’s many winding passages, unbeknownst to most of them. They were to use those passages upon seeing her Patronus, and to force all others they saw back to their common rooms.

When her orders were carried out seamlessly, she turned to Hermione. “Go to the library.” She said shortly.

“Fleur, don’t you dare think for a moment that I’d—”

“Go to the library.” The Veela repeated, her voice low and drawling. “You are not leaving me behind, you are helping me. Keep watch there. A brick behind the mantel of the fireplace will open a passageway for you that leads to the third-floor corridor. If anyone flees to the library or otherwise doesn’t know what’s happening, you will be there to aid them.”

The lioness stared into Fleur’s eyes, hazel hard and unfaltering. Finally, she crushed the Veela in her arms and claimed her mouth. “I love you,” she whispered against her lips. Though her eyes never wavered, her voice did, shaking against the Veela’s eardrum.

“Je t'aime de toute mon âme. Sois prudente, ma chérie."

Hermione chuckled softly. "Seulement si tu l'es."

Upon parting, the lioness shared the last bit of Felix with the Veela, and hurried away to her post.

For several hours, nothing happened. Some of her watch abandoned their posts and retired to their common rooms, believing the whole ordeal to be a false alarm. Others stood their ground, however. The elder D.A. members were unmoving at their posts, unless thus called to do so, and wandered about as necessary. Fleur made her rounds, called the Order and told them to be ready, before she settled in a corner of the seventh-floor corridor where she stared at a blank brick wall. She cast multiple spells as Tonks had taught her, and rendered herself invisible to the naked eye as well with a few complicated concealing charms. Silently, she waited.

This was unlike any hunting experience she’d ever had. Where before she stalked her prey, tracked it, she now blended with the shadows, unmoving. Before, her heart had thundered in its cage upon beginning the hunt, and now, it beat quietly, ticking away at the time. She was coiled, but relaxed, impatient, but immobile in her urgency to wait. She watched closely, and slowly, with every heartbeat, the humanity in her faded away, and was replaced by Veela.

Though this hunting was new to Fleur, it was very old to the Veela. She very willingly gave up her ties to humanity, as her eyes protested against the suddenly too-bright light, as her teeth tightened and grew. She disposed of the old teeth hurriedly, and Vanished them away before she returned to her previous stance of complete and utter stillness. Her breathing was slow, silent, purposeful. Not a speck of dust fluttered upon her exhale, nor inhale. The tranquility of the corridor beat loudly within her cochlea, the silence truly deafening. Still, she made no movement.

She could hear others moving below her in another corridor, roaring as they moved stealthily about. The sounds made her yearn to cringe, but logic was still her companion and reassured her that the noises were far below the ability of the human ear to detect.

Finally, another, closer noise rattled through her senses. She stopped breathing, desperate to hear without commotion, internal or otherwise. She heard it again, a soft shuffling, and took a slow, deep breath that filled her entire chest cavity and diaphragm. The air smelled malicious, dangerous, and acrid. With one quick motion, the silver lioness bounded silently away, and split into multiples, before the polished door to the Room of Requirement appeared and opened. From it, hooded figures stepped out, excitement in their stride.

 

 

Harry Apparated back to Hogsmeade with haste, clutching his Headmaster. The old man was weak, unknown potion running rampant through his system. Desperately, Harry searched for help. The lights to Fleur’s cottage were out, as he knew they would be.

“Severus…” Dumbledore groaned, clutching his abdomen. “I need Severus...”

“All right, Professor,” Harry said hurriedly. “First we have to—Madam Rosmerta!”

The bar owner was coming towards them hastily, with great urgency in her stride. “I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn’t think what to—but what’s wrong with Albus?”

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.

“He’s hurt,” Harry supplied. “Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?”

“You can’t go up there alone! Don’t you realize—haven’t you seen—?”

“If you help me support him,” said Harry, not listening to her. “I think we can get him inside—”

“What’s happened?” asked Dumbledore. “Rosmerta, what’s wrong?”

“The—the Dark Mark, Albus.”

And she pointed to the sky, in the direction of Hogwarts. Dread flooded through Harry at the sounding of the words… he turned his eyes skyward.

There it was, hanging in the sky above the school; the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark the Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building… whenever they had killed…

“When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, his hand clenching painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet.

“Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs—”

“We need to return to the castle at once,” said Dumbledore. “Rosmerta”—and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation—“We need transport—brooms—”

“I’ve got a couple behind the bar—”

Without waiting, Harry summoned them and mounted one after he was sure Dumbledore was safely on his own.

“Please send a message to the Ministry,” Dumbledore implored. “It might be that no one within Hogwarts has yet realized anything is wrong… Harry, put your cloak on,”

He obeyed at once, and the two rushed off to the castle. Harry noticed that the Dark Mark glittered directly above the Astronomy Tower, the very highest point of the castle, and followed Dumbledore as he set course for it. Did that mean the death had occurred there? Who could it have been? Ron? Hermione? Fleur? Luna, Neville, Katie, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Zacharias, Malfoy—endless possibilities of names poured thorough his mind, and it wasn’t until he saw Dumbledore clutching his chest with his blackened, withered hand that his thought process halted. They landed gracelessly atop the Astronomy Tower in the light of green skull, the headmaster panting slightly.

“Go and wake Severus,” Dumbledore said faintly. “Tell him what has happened and bring him to me. Do nothing else, speak to no one else, and do not remove your cloak. I shall wait here.”

“But—”

“You swore to obey me, Harry—go!”

Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps on the other side. He looked back at Dumbledore, who’d heard as well, and motioned for him to retreat. Harry obeyed, and drew his wand.

The door burst open and somebody erupted through it and shouted, _“Expelliarmus!”_

Harry’s body became instantly rigid and immobile, and he felt himself fall back against the tower wall, propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or speak. He could not understand how it had happened; _Expelliarmus_ was a disarming spell, not a freezing charm.

Then, by the light of the Dark Mark hanging over the school, he saw Dumbledore’s wand flying in arc over the edge of the ramparts and understood… Dumbledore had wordlessly immobilized Harry, and the second he had taken to perform the spell had cost him the chance to defend himself.

Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or distress. He merely looked across at his disarmer and said, “Good evening, Draco,”

Malfoy stepped forward, glancing around quickly to check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His eyes fell upon the second broom.

“Who else is here?”

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

Harry saw Malfoy’s pale eyes shift back to Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark.

“No,” he said. “I’ve got backup. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight.”

“Well, well,” said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was showing him an ambitious homework project. “Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?”

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who was panting. “Right under your nose and you never realized!”

“Ingenious, yet, forgive me, where are they now? You seem unsupported.”

“They met some of your guards.” sneered Malfoy. Harry never wanted to slap an expression off his face more than he did now. “They’re having a fight down below. They won’t be long… I came on ahead. I—I’ve got a job to do.”

“Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,” said Dumbledore softly.

There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his own, invisible, paralyzed body, staring at the two of them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death Eaters’ distant fight, and in front of him, Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore, who, incredibly, smiled.

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”

“How do you know?” said Malfoy at once.

He seemed to realize how childish the words had sounded, for Harry saw him flush in the green light.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” said Malfoy more forcefully. “You don’t know what I’ve done!”

“Oh yes, I do,” Dumbledore returned mildly. “You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts… so feeble, to be honest, that I wondered whether your heart has really been in it.”

“It has been in it!” said Malfoy vehemently. “I’ve been working on it all year and tonight—”

Somewhere in the depths of the castle below, a loud screech sounded, followed by yells of pain and protest. Harry recognized the screech at once as Fleur’s, avian in nature and fierce in volume.

“Somebody is putting up a good fight. Fleur Delacour, if I’m not mistaken,” Malfoy flushed darkly and his eyes narrowed. Dumbledore continued as though he didn’t see. “But you were saying… yes, you have managed to introduce the Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit I thought impossible. How did you do it?”

Malfoy said nothing, focusing on the sounds of the fray below, paralyzed much the same as Harry was.

“Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,” suggested Dumbledore. “What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realized, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don’t really need help… I have no wand at the moment, and I cannot defend myself.”

Malfoy merely stared at him.

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured kindly when Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. “You are afraid to act until they join you.”

“I’m not afraid!” Malfoy snarled, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore. “It’s you who should be scared!”

“But why?” Dumbledore returned. “I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not as easy as the innocent believe… so tell me, while we wait for your friends, how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it.”

Malfoy looked as though he was fighting the urge to shout or to vomit. He gulped and took several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly at the latter’s heart. Then, his mouth opened, as though he could not help himself, and told the story.

 

 

Several floors below, Fleur bore her teeth, and brandished her wand dangerously. Her fangs glinted against the dim light of the moon where it streamed in from a broken window, throwing her shadow to the floor. Hermione was at her back, against all prior commands, pleas, and urges to return to safety, for they had fallen to deaf ears.

So they fought together once more, dodging spells and protecting one another, felling enemies and continuing on without thought to them. Fleur made good on her promise to Harry, for each of her spells hit their targets and dropped them to the floor lifelessly. Veela magic was thick in the air, potent as it seeped from her hexes. Shields and charms known only to the Veela race guarded her from attack, saved her life multiple times, and wrought her assailants to the ground.

The scent was rolling from Hermione as well, who knew the very strongest spells the Veela had to offer. She twirled a dangerous dance, her wand striking those around her down, but without death as Fleur’s did. These were not Voldemort’s elite troops, it was plain to see. A small ambush had been the worst the two Veelas had chanced across so far, and soon none of them stood. The corridor was ringing in the silence that followed, as the two pressed their backs together, scanning the halls with all their senses. Sounds of struggle higher in the castle stole their attention.

Hermione made to run, but Fleur grabbed her wrist and forced her into a classroom. There, she slammed the younger witch to the wall, claiming Hermione’s mouth for all she was worth. Tears stung her eyes as she prayed to the Veela mothers who’d cast their stars that this would not be the last time she tasted Hermione’s lips.

“Stay very close to me, do you understand?” Fleur whispered, her voice rough and low. Hermione nodded. The Veela took her face in her hands, and stared deeply into her eyes. For a moment, she could almost swear her eyes bore the Veela’s trademark, but forced the thought away as she kissed her again, far more gently than before. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice as thick and soft as the jumper she’d lent Hermione all those eons ago.

Hermione cupped her cheek in return, her breath hot against the other’s skin as she panted softly. “I love you, too, with all my soul,”

“All my soul.”

The two shared one last, fleeting smile, before they went into the corridor again. Taking long, leaping strides, the Veelas easily rejoined the fighting upstairs, where McGonagall fought like a madwoman alongside several members of the D.A. Their wands became, once more, vessels of powerful and ancient magic, rebounding off the walls after they passed through their targets. Their magic was not unstable; no, like its casters, this magic was wild, free, and unchained from years of little use. It flew through the air with purpose, lighting up the dim corridor with brilliant blues, yellows and purples, never before seen by those gathered in the fray.

The scent of danger buried itself deep in the nostrils of the Death Eaters, whom were stronger than those who lay dead or otherwise paralyzed on the floors below. They saw the two Veelas for everything they were: fierce, dangerous, untamed creatures that should not be tempted. A few ran, and those few were expertly captured by Minerva McGonagall’s unwavering magic.

Then, a sound that will reverberate in Fleur’s ear for a lifetime to come sounded from behind her.

“FLEUR!” Hermione cried, her arms straining against the massive weight of Fenrir Greyback. He snapped his jaws inches from her face, his thick, repugnant saliva dripping onto her robes, although the moon hung in a sliver. She struggled, while Fleur was tackled to the ground by another Death Eater the very moment her eyes had turned to her mate.

Hermione’s voice rang out again, and the werewolf was thrown from her body and hit the wall at his back with a crunch. The lioness sprung back up to her feet, and Fleur, who’d lost her wand when she’d been hit, curled her hand around the throat of her assailant. She felt the hyoid bone bend and break under her hand, felt as the trachea collapsed in on itself, and threw the body away from her.

Hermione rushed to her, and barely spared a glance at the suffocating Death Eater. “Are you all right?”

And for the second time in her life, Fleur cast magic without word or wand. A striking green jet took flight behind Hermione, who, in her haste to reach Fleur, had left her back exposed. The Veela answered with a strong, purposeful sweep of her arm, and a great white light issued from her fingertips. The green light was absorbed easily, and reflected. The body opposite it crumpled to the floor.

Hermione turned incredulous eyes to her, unsure as when Fleur had moved protectively in front of her, but Fleur paid no mind, and opened her hand so that her palm faced away from her. Obediently, the rosewood wand returned to her verbally unbidden, and set to casting spells again.

Not two minutes after this incredible feat, Harry Potter himself bolted through the corridor, and called out to Fleur. She rushed to his voice, and fell to her knees in a pool of Neville’s blood.

“Son of a bitch,” she cursed, and set to closing the boy’s wounds. Sacrifice would weaken her, and so much use of Veela magic, even with her wand, had already impacted her strength to an enormous degree. Though she desperately wished she could do more, she pulled the young Gryffindor into an adjacent classroom after making for damn sure no one else was in there, and closed the door with a strong charm. He would heal if given the proper time. Interrupted, the spells she cast would keep him alive, if in a comatose; unbroken, he would be fighting again in half an hour. She desperately wished the fight wouldn’t last that long.

The Veela leaped back into the fight with vigor, and the fight seemed endless. Then, without decrescendo or preamble, the corridor was still. Panting and murmured words broke what would have certainly been a most eerie silence as the battle fought continued to ring from the flagstones.


	12. Lifeblood's Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Faewolf here again, as ReginaCorda had mentioned in her last chapter, she is focusing on classes so I have been given the wonderful task of posting chapters she sends me :3. I wish you all love and happiness on this day, whether you have someone you love or you have a pet you love. You all deserve it. As always, I have read this chapter, but in my zeal to read what my friend has written (I do look forward to her updates XD) if I have missed any errors or anything of the sort, please feel free (indiefoxproductions) to let me know :D.

Word passed very quickly that Dumbledore was dead. Accompanying it, Snape had delivered the killing blow, and had vanished from the grounds. All along, Harry had been right; Malfoy had been using the Room of Requirement. He had shown Borgin the Mark he bore. He had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet within the Room to transport the Death Eaters safely from Nocturne Alley into Hogwarts undetected. The whole of the student body knew how he had Imperioused Madam Rosmerta, how it was she who passed the necklace on to Katie Bell, she who poisoned Slughorn’s mead.

 

Most of Hogwarts had gathered in the hospital wing, where the wounded had been stitched together again, and the weak were given time to heal. Hermione lay against Fleur on her hospital bed, tucked firmly to her side as she watched Pomfrey make her rounds. The quarter-Veela was utterly exhausted, and after she’d heard Hagrid’s low voice rumbling the Death Eaters had vanished, she fell to the floor and gave up her sacrifice. The magic she used had come at a heavy cost, and nearly put her in a coma. Pomfrey assured the lioness that Fleur was quite well, and could perhaps even hear what was going on around her, but her body was so weak nothing more, other than rest, could be done for her.

Hermione held Fleur’s gauze-wrapped hand to her chest, and kissed it often. The spell, of which Hermione had never seen anything like it, cast by her bare hand had left terrible burns along the fingers and wrist of her right hand. Pomfrey healed them to the best of her ability, and had wrapped gauze around her wounds as well, for she’d done all she could to coax the wounds into a permanent state of health. They were persistent, however, and would not entertain her attempts.

Beside the Veela, Bill lay unconscious, gauze covering all of his face and most of his upper torso. Despite the incredible amount of sheer power Hermione had used to throw Greyback off her, the werewolf had found purchase elsewhere. Unfortunately, Bill had been on the receiving end. 

Lupin seemed fairly confident that he would not become a werewolf in all sense of the word. Bill would bear more wolfish characteristics than before, and his scars would not heal completely. Fenrir, as it seemed, had taken to attacking others even when the moon was not full and in control of his actions. He, in his human skin, had wrought upon Bill a fate that was largely unknown.

Lupin and Tonks huddled together, discreetly holding hands, finally pushed into each other’s arms as the times begged for comfort and security. Hermione’s heart warmed at the sight, despite the melancholy atmosphere. She whispered her observation to Fleur, whose mouth twitched as if she wanted to smile. Hermione gently stroked her cheek, pleased to have evidence that Fleur could in fact hear her.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley fell into the room, worrying over Bill and his bandaging. Apolline and André followed them closely, and rushed to Fleur’s bedside. Apolline very nearly had a heart attack when Fleur didn’t respond to her voice or her touch.

“She’s just exhausted; Veela magic, you know,” Hermione murmured, sitting up but did not move from Fleur’s side. “She can hear us, though, she smiled a bit earlier.”

The Delacour matriarch visibly relaxed, and took Fleur’s face gingerly in her hands. She whispered lovingly to her, telling her what a good job she’d done and how proud she’d made her family. A deep blush rose to color Fleur’s cheeks as testament of having heard each word and lay unable to refuse such praise. As if to bring her more embarrassment, Neville limped over to Fleur’s bedside and offered hearty thanks. If it hadn’t been for her, he would have bled out for sure. Hermione kissed her hand again, and looked at Harry. 

The lion was sullen in his chair, his fingers templed over his knees as he hunched over. _Snape_. It had to be Snape. The one who Dumbledore trusted with utmost certainty against any and all urges to consider otherwise. Snape, who was himself the Half-Blood Prince. Snape, who’d sent Voldemort to Lily and James Potter upon eavesdropping of the foretold prophecy. Snape, who’d indirectly saved Ron’s life by the small scribble of  _shove a bezoar down their throat_ in his Potions book.

Presently, the blush faded from Fleur’s face as her parents turned their attention to the boy they’d only met a handful of times, the boy who’d watched Dumbledore plummet. Missing pieces of the story were exchanged, more gruesome and horrible once a collective whole. Once the Death Eaters stormed in, fights broke out almost instantaneously. Few kept up their posts, but none of the younger students were maimed in any way, partly due to Fleur’s explicit instruction. The professors, trusting Dumbledore’s instinct, had watched Snape run up to the tower, thinking he was going to fight the Death Eaters as well.

Then, with a somber, horrible, gorgeous decorum, a voice lifted. It was not a human voice, nor was it a human song. The phoenix sang, low, sad songs no one had ever heard before. All noise in the castle ceased, even the mice in the floors and musty corners stopped to listen. Other avian species’ voices died in their throats, in jealous awe of their cousin’s voice as it easily covered the grounds. Fawkes lulled them, eased their hearts, and lamented Dumbledore.

For a long time, no one spoke. Tears left itching trails down Fleur’s cheeks that she could not scratch. Hermione, upon feeling the moisture, was pulled from the spell, and dabbed gently at the Veela’s face. Fleur hummed softly in thanks, and Hagrid entered the room.

“Professor,” he said, looking to McGonagall. His face, what wasn’t covered by beard or hair, was swollen and red, a massive spotted handkerchief in his hands as he continuously swiped at his eyes. “I—I’ve done it. M—moved him. Professor Sprout’s got the kids back in bed. Professor Flitwick’s lyin’ down, but he says he’ll be all righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the Ministry’s bin informed.”

“Thank you, Hagrid,” McGonagall murmured, exhaustion evident in her voice. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood. “I shall have to see the Ministry when they arrive. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of Houses—Slughorn can represent Slytherin—that I want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like you to join us, too. Before I meet them, I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you’ll come with me…”

Fleur’s muscles contracted suddenly where she lay on the hospital bed. She grunted, in dire desperation to regain control. McGonagall sighed heavily.

“There’s no need to worry, Fleur. He’ll be quite all right, you have my word. You need to rest.” Fleur was reluctant to relax, and finally, Pomfrey had to give her a potion to carry her to sleep. She fought it, even after she’d swallowed it, desperate to remain at least halfway conscious to know what was going on. The potion, however, overpowered her tired, frayed nerves, and after a few minutes, her breathing deepening, and her body went limp. Hermione kissed her forehead and murmured softly to her as Harry followed the headmistress. A few minutes passed before he returned and beckoned both Ron and the lioness herself, an expression of extreme anxiety written plainly across his face.

 

When Hermione returned, she found Fleur was still asleep to no surprise. Apolline and André embraced her, patting her shoulders and her cheek. She sighed against both of them, reveling in their warmth and comfort. After a few moments, Apolline announced she was going to her mother’s village to collect Gabrielle. André retired home, in wait for his wife and daughter, confident that Hermione was fit to keep her safe until morning when they would return for Dumbledore’s funeral.

The lioness fought tears, and after they left, she had a word with Pomfrey. The Medi-witch allowed her to take the Veela upstairs into her quarters until morning, to free a bed in case someone needed it. She seemed surprised at first, but McGonagall gave her blessing easily as she was making her rounds around the castle. With a wordless incantation, Hermione lifted the Veela with a flick of her wand, and settled her in the bed Hermione had first contemplated her attraction for her.

Thankful for the potion, and even for the debt Fleur was repaying, Hermione allowed herself to cry into the Veela’s chest for a solid hour, already apologizing for what she would soon have to do. Fleur never stirred, so deep was her slumber, but her warmth comforted the lioness greatly. She ran her hands through her hair, along her skin, memorizing every texture, every line, every scar, every freckle. It was late in the evening when she finally succumbed to sleep after visiting the library when rest alluded her; she’d nestled firmly against the woman who was so exhausted, she could not embrace her in return and read softly to her before she extinguished the candles. She listened to Fleur’s heartbeat for hours, staring at their constellation though her window. Nothing was interfering with their stars, but perhaps that was because an act had only been decided, and not executed.

When morning broke, Hermione was pleased to wake with Fleur’s body flush against her own, her warmth seeping into her form as the Veela’s gentle breath tickled her ear. She sighed heavily, nuzzling against soft breasts and warm skin. Fleur’s arms tightened around her, holding her close and without any indication that she’d willingly let her go. For a long, silent moment, the two forgot the world. They forgot yesterday and the wounds they’d both received and dealt. They forgot the scars that would form after many sleepless tomorrows. They let their existence funnel down into arms, legs, tight embraces and gentle kisses. Fleur gently traced along Hermione’s ribs under her shirt, her fingers rolling over strong bone and the soft flesh between. She made her way down to Hermione’s hip where she made gentle circles with sure and practiced fingertips, and pulled her hand away, surprised, when she realized that gauze no longer constricted her digits.

“You slept for decades,” Hermione said softly, finally mustering the courage to break the silence.

“Yes, indeed. I had two debts to pay, love, both yours and mine.”

Hermione grunted. “That’s hardly fair. Aren’t I Veela, too?”

“You are, but I’m a direct descendant by blood, and so they hold me accountable for the sacrifice they demand.”

“Your grandmother never had to offer sacrifice,” she murmured, remembering all the magic Asteria had taught her.

“No,” Fleur agreed. “She’s full-blooded. Her mothers sacrificed quite enough to bring her into the world and by the grace of the Veela mothers, so she is a free customer, if you will.” 

Hermione frowned. It made sense, now that she thought about it. The Veela were comprised solely of females, so in order to be full-blooded, one must have two mothers, but the merit of lineage of said mothers was still unknown to her. “Will our children be full-blooded?”

Fleur had to carefully school her expression to keep a smile from reaching both her ears, even though it was a hypothetical question. The thought of Hermione, glowing with pregnancy, nearly brought her to tears with joy.

“Yes, they will. The Veela mothers must consent, give us a child by taking the blood sacrifice, charming the genetic information therein, and then use it to make a child. The Goddesses are usually very generous when one asks for children, and since it is by their consent, the children are born full Veela.”

Hermione sighed. “So many rules…”

Fleur chuckled. “All sacrifices I’m more than willing to offer. In any case, I’m glad to have full mobility again,” Fleur murmured, stretching her fingers before she returned to stroking Hermione. “And the burns aren’t as bad as I thought. Would that be your doing?”

Hermione nodded under her chin. “Pomfrey gave me an ointment to give to you, but I applied it twice rather than just once. I waited a little while, and the ointment, paired with your uncanny ability to heal quickly, left no reason to fuss over gauze. Barely finished reading and you were back in perfect health.”

“Ah, and what were you reading?”

Hermione bit her lip and was utterly grateful to her past self for having the presence of mind to read something that wouldn’t force her into a lie to cover her research on any of Hogwarts’ R.A.B.’s. “Poetry. I read some to you while you slept. I know how much you like Poe’s work.”

Fleur chuckled softly under her, before her voice lowered against her temple.  _“And neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, could ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”_

Hermione forced the tears out of her eyes with great success, for the act was well-practiced.  _“For we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee.”_

Fleur laughed again. “That’s not exactly correct, but I’ll take it,”

Hermione fell silent. Her night had been long, and sleep had evaded her. At best, she’d only managed to attain three hours of rest before she woke and wandered down to the library. She’d found little, and none of it enlightened her to any degree. Finally, she pulled the battered book from the shelf, and lay back down beside her unnaturally still lover, and read to her until she’d fallen asleep.

It was with great shock when the world they’d forgotten crashed back into their conscious. Dumbledore lay dead on the castle grounds, and they desperately needed to pay their respects. Hermione needed to tell Harry the unfortunate lack of a lead of R.A.B.

The lioness jumped slightly as Fleur’s hand cupped her cheek gently. She leaned into the kiss wholeheartedly, relaxing again against Fleur’s frame. Again, she memorized the incredible softness of the Veela’s lips and face, and again, she choked down her urge to cry.

“Let’s get ready,” Fleur murmured. “Dumbledore deserves respect.”

Hermione nodded, and they both rose out of bed. They dressed silently, Fleur’s parents had brought her extra clothes, and the Veela was incredibly grateful for that. In somber attire, the two made their way downstairs to the common room. It was nearly deserted, except for Harry, Ron, and Ginny, who greeted them with utmost warmth. Harry hugged them both gingerly, Ginny followed after Ron. Subtly, Harry glanced at Hermione, who shook her head. He sighed, and nodded, his fingers tracing over the fake locket in his pocket.

They joined everyone else in the Great Hall, which was filled with hundreds of whispered voices, either asking what had happened or what would happen next. The voices died as McGonagall stood.

“It is nearly time,” she called. “Please follow your Heads of Houses out onto the grounds. Gryffindors, follow me.”

Fleur kept a tight grip on Hermione’s hand, shaking as she drew a deep breath. The student body formed a mass similar to a military platoon, and filed out of the castle behind their Heads. Another mass waited by the lake, already seated facing a large marble table. There were hundreds of chairs, a single aisle broke them into halves, and the chairs were filling quickly. An enormous powder-blue carriage pulled by huge winged horses was parked beside Hagrid’s hut, and the gigantic form of Madame Maxime was seen sobbing into Hagrid’s chest in front of it. The entire Order occupied a row to themselves, along with the Weasley family. A series of large shadows passed over them, and a score of enormous dragons landed with a dull thud against the ground. Asteria herself dismounted from a large  _Lung Tien_ dragon, while several of her sisters dismounted from beasts that looked to be Shamin’s offspring. The Veela sisters kept their distance from the gathered others, however, and stood next to their dragons.

Others, whom Fleur had seen around Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade had assembled too, along with the Hogwarts ghosts, who were barely visible in the direct sunlight. Others were less than expected to show, like Cornelius Fudge, Rita Skeeter (who, to Fleur’s disgust) sat down with a notepad clutched in blood-red talons, and with a greater surge of loathing, Dolores Umbridge. Firenze stepped forward with his hands clasped over his abdomen, looking very solemn, and beside him a few members from the Weird Sisters had been seated to pay their respects.

The staff was seated last and took the front-most rows. Fleur followed Harry as he followed Ginny to take their seats at the end of a row towards the middle. The blonde tucked Hermione against her side, and conjured a tissue for her.

After they’d all been seated, as if on cue, the Veelas took up in song. They sang in a language that only Apolline, Fleur, and Gabrielle could understand. They added their voices in soft sopranos, tears running freely from Fleur’s eyes as she opened her mouth. Song poured from them, flowing from their hearts and minds like an audible embodiment of their sorrow. From the lake, the merpeople joined the Veela’s song, singing in harsher contraltos, mezzo-sopranos, baritones and basses in another language, strangely similar to the Veela’s.

Though they sang in different tongues, they shared the same song of grief and goodbye. Though Veela had so long ago taken the siren’s voice, the merpeople still sang with all their hearts, gravely and coarse compared to Veela’s daughters, their voices complimented each other, creating an unearthly, regal sound that lamented Dumbledore, while comforting his friends gathered there. Hagrid, doing his very best not to sob outright, carried a large bundle of purple velvet, spangled with golden stars, to the marble table. Undoubtedly, Albus Dumbledore’s body was wrapped lovingly inside.

The siren decedents kept up their song for a few minutes after Hagrid had sat down beside his half-brother, who seemed to know this was a very somber occasion, and had even dressed properly for it. Grawp had his head bowed low, and patted Hagrid as gently as he could when he sat down again.

It wasn’t until a small, tufty-haired wizard stood and approached the table that the merpeople and the Veela stopped singing. He waited for the echoes to die away with the wind before he spoke.

Fleur never heard a word he said. Hermione had long ago burrowed into her chest to stifle her sobs, and the Veela herself had to strain in order to keep halfway quiet. Her tears soaked a patch of Hermione’s hair, but she could not bring herself to care. The two clung to one another, stroking through hair and over exposed skin, offering anything they possibly could to give comfort. By Hermione’s side, Ron had begun to weep himself. Fleur stretched her arm out as far as she could, and squeezed him in close. Hermione relinquished one arm’s hold on Fleur to embrace Ron, and they sat in mutual sorrow, clinging to each other to take and offer comfort.

After several long minutes of speech, the little man left his post, and behind him, bright, white flames erupted over the marble table. A few people screamed, Fleur was one of them. Hermione squeezed her gently, and murmured something about a tomb. The fire burned without tender or fuel upon the marble table, and threw strange shapes into the air. Once, the lioness thought she saw a phoenix take flight into the blue sky above. As quickly as the fire had started, it died, and in the table’s place stood a large, gleaming marble tomb. Arrows took flight from the trees, and struck the ground far from the gathered mourners. The centaurs stood at the very edge of the trees, their bows empty, and bowed their heads before they turned and entered the depths of the forest once more.

The crying and whispers picked up again all around them. Fleur heard as Harry ended things between himself and Ginny, apologizing with great sorrow and regret, telling her how Voldemort would use anyone he could to take him down, especially those closest to his heart. Sympathy practically rolled off Fleur in waves, and she held Hermione tighter. Finally, Harry got up, and walked to the edge of the lake. The three respected his privacy, and murmured softly to one another, swiping fruitlessly at their eyes. Fleur heard her name being called, and rose dutifully, kissed Hermione gently, and joined her grandmother.

Hermione and Ron saw Scrimgeour following Harry, and chased after him, arriving at Harry’s side after the battle had been won.

“What did he want?” Ron asked, sniffling.

“Same thing as he did at Christmas.” Harry returned gruffly. “Wanted me to give him inside information about Dumbledore and be the Ministry’s new poster boy.”

Ron’s face colored angrily. “Let me go back and hit Percy, I think that’ll make us feel a little better!”

“No, Ron,” Hermione said stiffly, restraining the Gryffindor carefully. Harry actually chuckled a bit, and the lioness cracked a smile. It faded as she looked to the monstrous castle behind her.

“I can’t bear that we might never come back… How can Hogwarts close?”

“Maybe it won’t,” Ron shrugged, seeming to forget his idiot brother for a moment. “We’re not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? Everywhere’s the same now. I’d even say Hogwarts is safer, since there’s more wizards inside to defend the place. What d’you reckon, Harry?”

“I’m not coming back even if it does reopen,” said Harry.

“I knew you were going to say that, Harry,” Hermione murmured, while Ron gaped at him. “But then what will you do?”

“I’m going back to the Dursleys’ once more because Dumbledore wanted me to,” Harry replied. “It’ll be a short visit, and then I’ll be gone for good.”

“But where will you go if you don’t come back to school?”

“I thought I might go to Godric’s Hollow. For me, it all started there. I’ve got a feeling that I need to go there. And I can visit my parents’ graves, I’d like that.”

“And then what?” asked Ron.

“Then, I’ve got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, haven’t I?” he said, staring at Dumbledore’s white tomb. “That’s what he wanted me to do, that’s why he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right, and I’m sure he was, there are still four of them out there. I’ve got to find them and destroy them, then I’ve got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort’s soul, the bit that’s still in his body, and I’m the one who’s going to kill him. And if I meet Severus Snape along the way. So much the better for me, so much the worse for him.”

There was a long silence. The crowd had almost dispersed, giving the gigantic form of Grawp a wide berth of space as they passed him cuddling Hagrid as he sobbed loudly.

“We’ll be there, Harry,” Hermione and Ron spoke together.

“What?”

“At your aunt and uncle’s house,” said Ron. “And then we’ll go with you wherever you’re going.”

“No—”

“You said to us once before,” Hermione said quietly. “That there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We’ve had time, haven’t we?”

“But—”

A stern look from Hermione silenced him completely.

He looked back and forth between the two. They stood with steel in their eyes and iron in their voices. Finally, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Fine,” he murmured.

“But first, before we go to Godric’s Hollow, we have a wedding to attend.”

Harry looked up sharply.

“Lupin and Tonks. They thought Dumbledore would want there to be more happiness in the world, and they want to stake their claim. If I heard correctly, it’ll take place at your house, Ron.”

The redhead gaped for a moment, before he nodded. Harry seemed to consider it briefly.

“Fine, then. We’ll leave directly after the wedding.”


	13. Seven Harrys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening friends! I hope you all are enjoying the fic. Again, if there are any errors please let me know. Sorry this note is a little short, you all know what's going on, so enjoy this chapter :3

 

The ride home was as unceremonious as it usually was. Hermione refused to release Fleur, and spent the next several days nestled firmly against her side. She made love to her carefully, slowly, as if she were memorizing every shudder the blonde gave from the moment their lips met, to the last sigh after orgasm. Their time spent together was short, indeed, and soon, they left to join the Order members at the Burrow. The plan was set, the Polyjuice brewed, and together, they took various forms of transportation to the Dursley’s home.

Hermione launched herself into Harry’s arms once she saw him. “Are you ready to go?”

“More than ready,” he returned softly.

Moody ushered them all inside, muttering about a change of plan. Hagrid’s enormous form took up most of the living room, while Fleur, Hermione, Moody, Tonks, Lupin, the twins, Ron, Mr. Weasley, Bill, Kingsley and Mundungus Fletcher managed to fit in the adjacent kitchen.

“So,” Moody grumbled, looking around the place while his magical eye whirled about. “The change in the plan. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an imprisonable offence to connect this house to the Floo network, place a Portkey, or Apparate in or out. All in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who from getting at you. Absolutely pointless bullshit, since your mother’s charm does that already. What he’s really done is prevent you from getting out of here safely. Second problem, you’re underage, which means you still have the Trace, which is how the Ministry keeps up with underage magic. If you or anyone around you casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse will know, and thus so will the Death Eaters.

“We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and proper.”

Harry couldn’t help but agree with the unknown Thicknesse. “So what are we going to do?”

“We’re using the only means of transport left to us that the Trace can’t detect; brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid’s motorbike.”

Harry could see the holes in the plan but bit his tongue to allow Moody to address them.

“Now, your mother’s charm will break only under two conditions: when you come of age, or,”—Moody gestured around the pristine kitchen—“you no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight with the understanding that you will not be living together again, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“So this time, there’ll be no going back and the charm will break the moment you leave its range. We’re choosing to break it early, because the alternative is Who-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen. The only thing he doesn’t know is that we’ll be moving you tonight. We’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: they think we’ll be moving you on the thirtieth. But, this is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, so I’m sure he’ll have a few Death Eaters patrolling the skies around the area just in case. Now, when we leave, we’ll be headed in a few key directions in which they’d think likely for us to take you; the Weasley’s, my place, Auntie Muriel’s, you get the idea. You’ll be going to Tonks’s parents’ and once you’re within the boundaries in place there, you’ll be able to Apparate to the Burrow. Any questions?”

“Yes…” Harry began. “How will this do any good if we’re all seen going to Tonks’s parents’ house?”

Moody shook his head. “Sorry, forgot to mention something. There will be seven Harry Potters in the sky tonight, and each of them will be going in a separate direction.” From his pocket, he pulled a sickly looking potion.

“Polyjuice,” Harry murmured, understanding, before he burst out in protest. “No! There’s no bloody way I’m going to let six people risk their lives—”

Hermione sighed with a knowing expression.

“Harry, it won’t be the first time,” Fleur murmured softly.

“Everyone here is of age,” Moody growled. “Everyone here has consented. They know the risks, but if you won’t cooperate and give me a few of your hairs, boy, the odds are thirteen to one, and we have two Veelas.”

“I won’t be gentle, Harry,” Fleur said softly.

“But, you, Hermione!”

“We’ll be fine, Harry,” the lioness reassured him. “We fought back-to-back in the castle. In the Department of Mysteries. Veela, remember?”

“That doesn’t change—”

“It does, Harry. We’re strong, we can look out for ourselves and you as well. Hand over a few hairs before this gets ugly.”

Harry, with a defeated look on his face, reached up to his scalp and pulled a few hairs, which he then deposited into the flask in Moody’s hand. The moment the hairs touched the mud-like potion, it began to froth and smoke, before it turned to resemble liquid gold.

“All right, fake Potters on one side!” Moody called. Ron, Hermione, the twins, and Bill lined up against the sink. “Mundungus, get your scrawny arse in line,” Moody snapped. He reached into his cloak and pulled out six little eggcups, and poured out a dose of potion. Fleur kissed Hermione gingerly before she knocked the potion back like a shot of firewhisky.

The transformation was incredible to watch. Their features bubbled like hot wax as they took on Harry’s form. The taller doppelgängers shrank down, while Mundungus shot up. Hermione and Bill’s long hair seemed to rewind itself back into their skulls. Within moments, six Harrys stood apart from one another.

“Jesus, Harry, your eyesight’s horrible,” Hermione said, squinting around.

“Hey!” George piped up, looking at Fred. “We’re identical!”

“Well, I still think I’m better-looking,” Fred returned, examining his reflection in the kettle.

“All right, you lot, there’s extra clothes if the ones you have are too tight or loose, and don’t forget your glasses, they’re on the counter.” Moody said loudly over their jesting. “Now, Hermione, you’ll be with Fleur, of course,” Hermione took her place at Fleur’s side, curling a hand around the Veela’s elbow. “Fred, with Arthur, George with Remus, Bill with Kingsley, Ron with Tonks, and Mundungus will be with me.”

“Tha’ leaves you an’ me, Harry,” Hagrid said softly. “Is tha’ all righ’? Yeh’ll be in the side car,”

“That’s perfectly fine, Hagrid,” Harry assured him, and went to stand by him.

“Right,” Moody continued, and doled out a rucksack and owl cages with stuffed snowy owls in them to each of the fake Potters. “We leave in three minutes, understand? No point in locking the back door, I’m afraid. They’ll come in anyway.”

They all migrated outside. Fleur and Hermione mounted their thestral with a practiced ease, although Hermione still started slightly upon seeing the creature, even though she’d ridden it there. How desperately Fleur wished they could have taken Alkaia or Shamin. The shining black Horntail would have been far more than alarming and probably illegal, waiting for the Veela outside the Dursley’s house, but his fire and wings would destroy any threat that could meet them.

At Moody’s call, they lifted from the ground. Just as they broke the clouds, thirty hooded figures fell upon them.

“Son of a bitch!” Fleur snarled. “It’s an ambush! Someone sold us out!” she roared over her shoulder. Hermione’s hand tightened on her waist, and she drew her wand.

Fleur, wand in hand, called upon the Veela’s magic, and felled three Death Eaters without skipping a beat. Hermione’s first instinct was to summon the ancient magic she’d so recently learned to wield, but knew at once they would recognize the different styles and spells. So she fought like Harry had taught her, casting Shields, absorbing spells and firing them back, stupefying and paralyzing, one arm locked around Fleur’s waist. Fleur, just as she had been at the castle, was out for blood. Like heroine, the Veela’s magic coursed through her veins, and her teeth were lost almost instantly as a result. High in the atmosphere, above the clouds, she longed to run, but Hermione’s arm around her waist, and the thestral under her were the only things keeping her from plummeting to the ground.

Again, she wished for Shamin, but even with his absence, the two Veelas managed fairly well, and every Death Eater that made the mistake of following them fell to the ground.

“FLEUR!” Hermione shrieked behind her. Instantly, every hair along her body stood at attention. At once, she felt Hermione call the Veela’s magic, and sent a powerful spell at the pale, snakelike face pursuing them. As it passed him, for he curved in an arc to avoid it, he drew back, any pretense gone by Hermione’s use of Veela charms. He raced away in search of the real Harry, but did not fail to send a killing curse her way. Fleur could smell the acidic burn of the curse as it hit the air, and she raised a magnificent shield over herself, Hermione, and the thestral. The curse died, screaming like a bottle rocket, upon impact. Two more Death Eaters followed them in Voldemort’s absence, and soon fell to the ground as well. 

They arrived at Aunt Muriel’s sooner than expected, and no matter what they might have wished, orders were orders, and Moody explicitly forbade anyone to turn back. It was every pair for themselves, once the line of sight was broken.

 When they touched down, the thestral paced, nickering worriedly, just as antsy as its riders. Hermione leaped from the beast and went inside the squat little house to report their safe arrival, and their ignorance of anyone else’s. Fleur went inside after several long moments, accepting the glass of water Muriel offered her with great thanks. The other witch started upon seeing Fleur’s eyes and teeth when she’d smiled, but Hermione took the liberty of explaining they were only the result of using Veela magic.

After their glasses had been drained, Muriel took them into an adjacent bedroom, and pointed at a bent wire hanger. She wished the two of them the best of luck, and in moments, the hanger began to glow blue. They touched the Portkey with a single fingertip, and spiraled away from Muriel’s back to the Burrow.

As soon as the spinning had stopped, Fleur found herself staring at Remus Lupin, looking absolutely furious as he held his wand to her throat.

“The first Order meeting you attended, you read aloud...?”

“The letter from Hermione, saying she’d been put in detention!”

The wand fell from her throat instantly and turned to Hermione, where she stood wearing Harry’s form. Fleur growled lowly, and stepped between them.

“She’s been with me every passing moment for last two months, Remus, more than that, she used Veela magic.” Fleur said slowly. “She couldn’t have betrayed us.”

Lupin continued to look through her, and spoke to Hermione. “What did the boggart in the chest turn into upon seeing me?”

“The full moon,” Hermione replied softly. Lupin’s wand fell to his side. “Get inside. They need your help, Fleur.”

The Veela followed, her hand clenching Hermione’s. On the sofa in the living room, George lay, blood covering his face. Fleur fell to his side instantly, examining the wound. She siphoned the blood off as Mr. Weasley came though the door followed by Fred. The redhead joined his twin, worrying over him as Fleur and Lupin began bringing flesh back together, leaving a bright pink scar around a gaping hole where his ear used to be. When the job was done, Fleur moved aside for Fred.

“George…” Fred murmured. “How’re you feeling?”

“Saintlike…” George murmured.

“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking terrified. “Is his mind affected?”

“Saintlike,” George repeated, opening his eyes and looking at his brother. “You see… I’m holy.  _Holey,_ Fred, geddit?”

Mrs. Weasley sobbed. Color flooded Fred’s face.

“Pathetic,” he told George. “Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for  _holey?”_

“Ah, well,” said George, looking at his tear soaked mother. “At least you’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum,”

Harry came around, looking quite worried. “Hi, Harry—you are Harry, right?”

“Harry!” Fleur exclaimed, squeezing the boy tight.

“Yeah, I’m Harry,” the boy said softly. “Where’s Hermione?”

“I think she went upstairs to change, I heard her muttering about it.” She pulled back slightly. “What’s wrong?”

The large form of Hagrid interrupted his answer. “Bill, Kingsley, Tonks and Ron jus’ arrived. Though’ yeh’d like to check in on ‘em, Remus.”

Lupin nodded, and went outside. Harry and Fleur followed, Ginny grasping Harry’s hand as he crossed the threshold. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley jumped up and joined them. Before they could even cross the yard, Bill spoke in a rough, graveled voice.

“Mad-Eye’s dead.”

Fleur felt her knees go weak. She clutched Harry’s shoulder as Bill came forward to wrap an arm around her. Tonks began to cry into Lupin’s chest.

“It was shortly after we broke the circle: Mad-Eye and Dung were close to us, they were heading north, too. Voldemort—he can fucking fly now—went straight for them. Dung panicked, I head him yell, Mad-Eye tried to stop him but he Disapparated. Voldemort’s curse hit him square in the face, he fell backward off his broom and—there was nothing we could do, we have half a dozen of them on us—” His voice broke.

“There was nothing you could do,” Lupin said quietly. 

Fleur drew a shaky breath, and squeezed Bill’s arm. She straightened, and offered a sad smile to her friend, and Hermione joined them all outside. The Veela went to her side upon seeing her, and burrowed deep into her neck, whispering what had happened. For several long moments, they stood outside, staring up at the sky. By an unspoken agreement, they all filed back indoors, and answered Fred and George’s questions as best they could.

Bill walked into the kitchen, and pulled a bottle of firewhisky and some glasses.

“Here,” he said, and with a wave of his wand he send twelve full glasses soaring through the room to each of them, holding the thirteenth aloft. “Mad-Eye.”

“Mad-Eye,” they echoed, and drank. Fleur let the liquor sit in her mouth for a moment, remembering the man’s lessons of enjoying whisky and the drunken laughter that had ensued during them, and relished in the burn in her throat as she swallowed. A trail of fire flowed along the length of her esophagus, and coiled in her stomach. From the corner of her eye, she saw Hermione shiver as she took a sip.

“Mad-Eye,” Hagrid said a little late, blowing his nose on a tablecloth-sized handkerchief before he took his drink.

“So Mundungus disappeared?” Lupin asked, his glass empty.

The atmosphere changed with the utterance. Tension settled over them as everyone looked to Lupin, simultaneously wanting him to continue, but deathly afraid of what he’d say.

It was Fleur who answered.

“I know what you’re thinking, Remus,” she said softly, swirling the last bit of her whisky in her glass thoughtfully. “I thought about it too, when I first saw them. They were tipped off, obviously, but they didn’t know there’d be seven Harrys. That confused them the moment we appeared.”

Bill nodded from the other side of Hermione. “Yeah, and if memory serves me right, it was Dung’s idea to use seven Harrys to begin with. If he’d sold us out, why wouldn’t he have told them the whole plan? I think he just panicked, it’s as simple as that. He didn’t want to come in the first place, but Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went straight for them. It would have been enough to make anyone panic.”

“You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected,” Tonks sniffled. She’d been particularly close to him, for she was his favorite, his protégée in the Ministry. He’d taught her nearly everything she knew. “Mad-Eye said he’d expect the real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, then when Dung gave them away, he went after Kingsley, then Fleur.”

The Veela lifted her eyebrows. So Voldemort deemed her the third strongest Auror? Despite the situation, she couldn’t help the rise in her chest as her shoulders went back. They had known she was a threat, even with the Veela’s closely guarded secrets, the danger they posed certainly wasn’t a secret. Hell, it wasn’t even guarded, it was flaunted. But to think she was the third he’d chased… she hadn’t seen the flying pillar of smoke herself, but she’d felt his presence as the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. She thanked the Veela mothers again for their magic and their protection.

It was then that she felt the weight of her debt fall upon her. She slumped, clinging to Hermione. The lioness looked at her in utter horror and shock and gently led her to the armchair.

“Damn sacrifices,” Fleur muttered, knocking back the last of her firewhisky.

“But, we didn’t use much,” Hermione murmured softly.

Fleur shook her head. “Not nearly as much as last time,” she smiled weakly. “I won’t be in a coma, at least."

Hermione frowned, and looked back to Lupin.

“Even so,” he continued, offering Fleur more firewhisky, which she accepted gratefully. “It doesn’t explain how he knew we’d be moving him tonight. Someone must have been careless somewhere along the line, let something slip perhaps. Someone who knew the date, but not the whole plan.”

“No,” Harry said aloud, and all eyes turned to look at him. “I mean…if somebody made a mistake and let something slip, I know they didn’t mean to do it. It’s not their fault. We’ve got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don’t think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort.”

Silence followed, and Harry took another sip of firewhisky.

“Well said, Harry,” Fred said unexpectedly.

“Yeah, ‘ear, ‘ear,” said George, casting a sideways glance Fred, whose lips twitched in the beginning of a smile.

Lupin studied Harry with an odd expression. It was close to pity.

“You think I’m a fool?” Harry demanded.

“No, I think you’re like James,” Lupin returned. “You would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends.”

Hermione knew at once what Lupin was getting at, and Harry did as well. James had been betrayed by one of his friends. Just as Harry began to reply, Lupin had turned to Bill.

“There’s work to do. I can ask Kingsley whether—”

“No,” Bill said at once. “I’ll do it, I’ll come.”

“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Weasley and Tonks together.

“Mad-Eye’s body,” Lupin returned. “We need to go recover it.”

Fleur began to rise from her chair, only to be forced backwards by Hermione, with a firm shake of her head.

“Can’t it—”

“Wait?” said Bill. “Not unless you’d rather the Death Eaters took him?”

No one spoke. Lupin and Bill said their goodbyes and took their leave. The others that had been standing fell heavily into chairs, all except Harry. The suddenness and completeness of death was with them like a palpable presence.

“I’ve got to go, too,” Harry said.

Ten pairs of eyes turned to him again.

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t stay here,” he said, rubbing at his scar. “You’re all in danger while I’m here. I don’t want—” 

“But don’t be so silly!” said Molly. “The whole point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Tonks and Remus have agreed to get married here, have a small little ceremony, so we can all stay together and look after you—”

“If Voldemort finds out I’m here—”

“But why should he?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Harry, there are dozens of places you might be now. He’s got no way of knowing which safe house you’re in.” Mrs. Weasley said softly.

“It’s not me I’m worried about!”

“We know that,” Arthur said, his voice gentle. “But it would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless if you left.”

“Yer not goin’ anywhere,” Hagrid growled. “Blimey, Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?”

“Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” said George, hoisting himself up on his cushions.

“I know that—”

“Mad-Eye wouldn’t want—”

“I KNOW!” Harry bellowed. His faced had flushed darkly.

Fleur and Hermione said nothing, but studied him carefully. Mrs. Weasley broke the silence next.

“Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she asked coaxingly. “We can put her up with Pigwidgeon and give her something to eat.”

Harry’s face paled before it flushed again, one hand fisted at his side, the other clenched around his glass. He drank the last of his whisky in an obvious attempt to avoid speaking.

“Wait till word gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” said Hagrid. “Escaped from him. Fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!”

“It wasn’t me,” said Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My wand acted on its own accord.”

More silence passed.

“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “That’s impossible…”

“No, it wasn’t instinctive, it wasn’t without meaning to. The bike was falling, I couldn’t have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and shot a spell at him, and it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made gold flames appear before.”

“Often,” Mr. Weasley piped up. “When you’re in a pressured situation you can produce magic you’ve never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re trained—”

“It wasn’t like that.” Harry bit through gritted teeth. Silence took reign again, before Harry muttered something about fresh air. Hermione sighed, and helped Fleur upstairs and into bed to rest for a bit. She kissed her gingerly, and told her she was going to have a word with Harry.

She and Ron found him at the gate to the garden, sweat beaded across his forehead and his breathing heavy.

“Harry what happened?” she asked upon her rushed approach. “You look like hell!”

“Well,” he returned breathlessly. “I bet I look better than Ollivander. Voldemort has him. Ollivander thought using another wand would fix some sort of problem. Voldemort had used Lucius’s wand during the ambush, and mine destroyed it.”

“Harry…” Hermione breathed. Ron was pale and speechless beside her. “Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let him inside your head too! Dumbledore wanted you to keep your mind closed, please keep trying to guard it,” she implored, looking at him with wide, worried eyes.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, and nodded.

“More than that,” Ron murmured. “You have to stay here, mate. With all of us,”

Again, Harry wordlessly and begrudgingly nodded.

 

Hermione slipped into bed with Fleur, and tucked herself in close to her. The night was warm, barely cooling after the sun had long been lost to the horizon. The Veela had shed her shirt and her radiating heat left little choice for Hermione do anything else but the same. She began to trace a gentle pattern between the Veela’s shoulders, following the lean muscles there. She counted her vertebrae, smiling at the appreciative mumble Fleur gave her.

Moonlight streamed in faintly from the window. Though it was dim, the curves and contours of Fleur’s body were highlighted with a silver-white glow. Her ribs stretched as she drew a deep breath, her hair shined, the strong muscles of her arms and back were cast in the most alluring shadows. The Veela turned over to face her, and took her into her arms in a tight, loving embrace.

“Something worries you,” she said softly. “I don’t think it has to do with the events of today.”

Hermione sighed heavily, and snuggled closer to Fleur. “Harry, Ron and I are dropping out of Hogwarts,” she said softly.

Fleur rumbled beneath her. “I figured as much. Would you like to talk about it?”

Hermione winced, eternally grateful that the Veela couldn’t see. “No.”

The blonde nodded above her. “Very well. Shall I venture a guess? Dumbledore?”

Hermione nodded in confirmation.

Fleur sighed. “I believe he’s left us all work to be done, yes? If you need to speak freely, please do so, dearest. Until then, I will not pry.”

Tears pricked at Hermione’s eyes and her throat burned. “Thank you…” she murmured, tucking her face under the blonde’s chin. She was terrified when her breathing shook, rattling in her chest. She was powerless to stop the sobbing that overcame her. Fleur’s chest slickened with her tears, but the Veela was strong and solid under her. Her voice whispered to her in gentle comfort and eventually lifted in soft song as her hands followed the lines of muscle along her back, urging them to relax.

Her tears slowly subsided, leaving her winded and exhausted. She slumped against Fleur’s body, clinging to her like she was the only anchor holding her to the earth. Sleep came to her with reluctance, but Fleur coaxed her to embrace it, pleased when the lioness went limp against her. The Veela sighed heavily, and surrendered to sleep as well.


	14. Take This Kiss Upon the Brow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dearest loves!!! As some of you may have seen on Tumblr, I'm finished writing Kingdom. And oh boy is it a monster. But I have faith that you'll stick with me through it all! Now, again, shit's gettin' super hella real, for real. You'll see what I mean in a bit. So go on and jump in! This one's a lengthy one, so settle in for the ride!
> 
> Much love,   
> RC  
> Oh, and by the way, sex. Enjoy~
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> For the rest of this fic, the chapter titles will be used from various poems by Edgar Allen Poe. 'Take this kiss upon the brow' comes from the poem, 'A Dream Within A Dream.' Also, I use the following line, ‘I could sit for hours and find new ways to be awed each minute’ in this chapter. This is not an original thought. I’m borrowing it from Snow Patrol’s Crack the Shutters. All praise goes to them, and the writer of that song.

The days that followed were exhausting.

Mrs. Wesley had caught wind of the three Gryffindor’s plan to leave Hogwarts, and took utmost caution to keep them separated. She’d even cornered and interrogated Fleur, asking what she knew, which she confided wasn’t much, and in turn gave her chores to do in preparation for the wedding when she returned from Gringotts.

While the Veela was away at work, Hermione steeled herself. In between the chores she’d been assigned, she Apparated to her parent’s home. They were surprised to see her, and put the kettle on the moment she’d been released from their hugs.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Jean asked softly, cupping her daughter’s face in her hands as tears welled in Hermione’s eyes.

“I—I can’t stay for long—just needed to grab a few things. I just—I love you so much…” she said softly, burying her face in her mother’s hair. Jean held her gently as she murmured her love back to her and she stroked her hair, although her daughter’s tears and tone greatly concerned her.

“I love you too, dear,” Jean repeated, locking eyes with Hermione. “Now, your father’s making tea, why don’t you go assist him for the moment, and we’ll talk about this, yeah?”

Hermione sucked in a shaky breath and nodded. Jean kissed her forehead gently, and patted her shoulder. The lioness walked into the kitchen and embraced her father like she had her mother. Thomas was met with equal anxiety and fear as he returned the embrace.

“I love you, Dad,” Hermione whispered, trying to choke her tears down.

“And I you, sweetheart. What’s the meaning of all this?” he asked softly, gesturing to her tears.

“I just—I just wanted to tell you,” she offered meekly.

Thomas gave a little chuckle purely for her comfort. “Oh darling, your mum and me know you love us. And we’re so proud of you, love. So very proud.” He kissed her hair and offered her a napkin for her tears. “Go and collect your things, tea will be ready by the time you finish, all right?”

She nodded silently for her voice had deserted her. She made her way up the stairs to her room, her chest falling in with every photograph she passed on the way up. Her knuckles began to bleed as she bit into them to keep from sobbing outright as her eyes streamed relentlessly. Her things lay as they did the last time she had stood in the room, her bed neatly made, but a blonde hair rested on her pillowcase, a testament of Fleur’s reluctance to leave.  

Mechanically, she gathered the things she needed, shoving them unceremoniously into a charmed beaded bag. Most of her books were thrust into the bag, along with much of her wardrobe, and finally, she came to the bundle of photographs she and Fleur had taken over the years. She couldn’t bear the thought and set them gingerly inside a book. Another photo, a family portrait, went in with her treasures, and she cast a final glance around the room she’d grown up in. To the bed upon which she’d studied and cried and prayed and hoped and fantasized, and finally, _finally_ loved.

When she made her way back down the stairs, her parents were seated on the couch facing away from her, their tea untouched as they waited for her to join them. Her heart in her throat, barely able to articulate a whisper, she drew her wand, and cast a spell.

The single word _obliviate_ left her lips in a hushed, choked voice. Instantly, the charm began its work. The photographs on the walls contorted as her image left them. The third teacup on the table went back into the kitchen with the rest of the set. The gingersnaps beside the teapot evaporated entirely, for her mother bought them for her enjoyment alone. The afghan across the back of the armchair unwound itself and returned to the knitting basket. The ginger hair from Crookshanks disintegrated from the furniture and carpets. The painting of Beau Fleur had given them removed itself from the wall and shrank down into a small spark as it ceased to exist.

“I love you,” she murmured, her heart in pieces. She turned and walked swiftly out of the house before her parents could turn and see a stranger standing in their home. The first sob broke free as she looked to the concrete walkway only to see two pairs of handprints, instead of three. She broke into a sprint, running away from her home, away from familiarity, away from parents who would no longer look upon her with fondness and love and recognition. She was no more than a stranger now.

 

When Fleur returned from work, she found the lioness face down in bed. Gently, she patted her shoulder, urging her to meet her eyes.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

She sniffled and hiccupped, wiping at her face. “Fleur, I didn’t hear you come in,”

“Dearest,” the Veela repeated softly. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I modified my parent’s memories,” she rushed. “I just—until this bullshit with Voldemort is over, I want them to be safe. And they’re—they’re safer without me as a daughter!” She fell into Fleur’s chest, her shoulders shaking.

The blonde clutched her tightly, not bothering to offer condolences. They would be wasted, for nothing could balm her soul. “Is it reversible?”

Hermione nodded halfheartedly against her breast. “It should be… I think I did it right, it’s not exactly something you can practice…”

“Well, when this is all over, we’ll go together and lift it, then.” She decided firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with protecting them. And we _will_ get them back, dearest. I swear it.”

Hermione shook harder, thanking her, kissing her, clinging to her form and absolutely refusing to let her go.

“They probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear you’re dropping out, anyway,” she said, trying for humor. Hermione gave a watery chuckle. “Best to let them sit in ignorance for a while, especially with that notion.”

“Oh, Fleur…” Hermione sighed. “I love you…”

The Veela nuzzled her gently. “I love you, too.”

“All my soul.”

“All my soul.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been crying on you for days now,” she said meekly.

Fleur shrugged, and kissed her hair gently. “Not every day the brightest witch of the age decides to drop of school for fear of Dark wizard, is it? I wouldn’t expect you to be happy about it, love.”

The lioness nodded with a watery chuckle, and dried her eyes. She settled against Fleur, and spent several, long minutes listening to her heartbeat. It was almost too much to bear, and even with Fleur’s comfort, she couldn’t rid the weight upon her shoulders, where it so comfortably rested.

 Without warning, Hermione pressed her lips to Fleur’s, roughly forcing her under her. The Veela’s hands shot up, pushing her gently away.

“Right now, Hermione?” she asked softly, looking between her eyes. “Why don’t we go downstairs, have some dinner, perhaps have some time to regain your ability to breathe easily, and we’ll see about sex later, all right?”

Hermione fell backwards, with a long sigh. “I just… I want to forget for tonight.”

Fleur smiled sadly. “I know, love. Later, though. Come on,” she gently led her out of the bedroom and ushered her into the bathroom, where she drew cool water from the tap and dabbed gently at Hermione’s cheeks with a damp facecloth. The cool material soothed her raw, swollen skin, and Fleur’s voice carried a gentle soothing tune as she went about her work.

A few hours later, they found themselves in the bedroom again. Hermione looked at Fleur, pleading her, and with a silent nod, she consented. Hermione had asked her to be rough, to drive any thought from her mind until all she could do was feel. She didn’t want to remember anything about the Order, about Dumbledore, about Moody or her parents, or the impending doom that waited around the corner. She wanted escape, and Fleur helped her find it. In the dead of night, they crashed together, chasing away shadows and dark thoughts and all memory from their conscious. The only thing that existed was the other witch in front of them, reaching for her, pleasuring her, taking wit and thought from her with the practiced stroke of a hand or tongue.

Hermione shivered under Fleur’s onslaught. The Veela honored her request and ravished her roughly, her teeth bruising her chest and back, laying claim to her shoulders and hips, merciless as her lover bucked and pleaded under her.

The result was exactly what Hermione needed. Under Fleur’s expert hands and mouth, reality faded. Memory failed her as Fleur washed through her senses. Hermione readily succumbed to it, and relished in the release it gave her. Her back arched on instinct, crushing the space between her body and Fleur’s, her hands found soft skin and taunt muscles and eventually lost themselves in long, silken hair. All she could smell was Fleur and the musk they created together. When she met Fleur’s eyes as she panted above her, she could see all the galaxies the sky had to offer. Her breath rushed between her lips, ragged in her chest and hot against Fleur’s shoulder.  

She’d never felt the Veela as she did now. The rough passion gave way to gentle ecstasy as Fleur straddled her, pressing their sexes together. A shaking exhale lifted fine silver bangs, an unsteady hand came to rest on a flushed, heaving chest. Fleur thrust against her, moaning softly in her ear. Hermione responded in kind, entirely lost in the heat and notion of Fleur’s arousal on her own. She lifted her hips to meet the hastening thrusts, her fingernails marking Fleur’s shoulders as hers, her teeth claiming the sculpted collarbone and neck beside her.

Fleur brought her mouth to Hermione’s ear, breathing heavily beside her and she whispered sinful things to her. They only served to rekindle Hermione’s hunger as she raked her hands down the Veela’s back, pausing only to squeeze her arse in her hands and force her closer, harder. Fleur complied with mounting enthusiasm, and rolled her hips in ways that neither of them had ever tried before. More than the stimulation, the noises they made with each thrust took them nearer. Fleur was the first to fall apart, biting roughly into the soft, pliable skin in Hermione’s neck as orgasm took her, moaning her name repeatedly as if it were a holy mantra. 

Hermione followed as Fleur’s pace never stammered, desperate to give her the same release she’d found. The brunette’s strong legs lay incapable of anything, pinned under the Veela, but her hips thrust against her again and again, chanting her own prayer against Fleur’s chest and she shook and unraveled under her. It was by some divine power the Fleur didn’t collapse on top of her and managed to roll to her side and wrap her shivering lover in her arms before her strength completely fled.

Almost immediately after, Hermione fell asleep, a final murmuring of love came in a whisper. Fleur returned it softly, and buried herself in the thick tresses before she joined her mate in sleep.

 

 Harry’s birthday broke the next day, and despite all the work going into the wedding and preparations thereof, the Weasley family still made him feel very loved and very important, although he, and the other three, were under close instruction to carry out chores away from one another. He’d received a number of useful gifts; a Sneakoscope from Hermione, an enchanted razor from Fleur, a handsome wristwatch from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, a mokeskin pouch from Hagrid, and, unbeknownst to anyone else, a book called _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ from Ron.

Evening fell with a warm, comfortable dusk and a brilliant sunset. They all gathered outside, Hermione and Fleur decorated the trees with bright purple and gold streamers, the lioness even charmed the leaves of one tree golden. The Veela praised her magic, and took turns making colorful sparks hit the stars. Guests arrived, among them Hagrid, Charlie, Tonks and Lupin, along with the rest of the Weasley family sans Mr. Weasley. Just as Mrs. Weasley was calling everyone inside, the bright silver Patronus of Mr. Weasley streaked through the open gates. The weasel sat upright on its hind legs, and spoke.

“Minister of Magic coming with me.”

Tonks and Lupin paled. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” Lupin muttered quickly. “We shouldn’t be here—I’ll explain later.” With that, the two of them raced away, into the forest, and out of sight.

Before anyone could question the abrupt departure, Mr. Weasley and the Minister appeared from thin air and let themselves through the gate. Fleur’s hair bristled at the sight of Scrimgeour, and silently placed herself in front of Hermione, and closer to Harry by doing so.

“Sorry to intrude,” Scrimgeour said roughly, looking much older than he had when he came to interrogate Harry last Christmas. “Especially as I can see I am gate-crashing a party.” His eyes lingered for a moment on the beautiful beach ball-sized Snitch cake Mrs. Weasley had made for the occasion. “Many happy returns,”

“Thanks,” Harry said, his voice guarded.   

“I require a private word with you,” the Minister went on. “And with Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger.”

“Us?” Ron asked, surprised. “Why us?”

“I shall tell you when we are somewhere more private. Is there such a place?” he demanded of Mr. Weasley.

“Yes, of course,” he nervously returned. “The, er, sitting room, why don’t you use that?”

“Lead the way,” Scrimgeour said to Ron. “There will be no need to accompany us, Arthur, Miss Delacour.”

Hermione halted in her steps and rooted herself beside her Veela. “Where I go, Fleur goes.” 

The Minister turned, and studied them briefly. “This won’t be good for you in the long run,” he muttered, so low she barely missed it.

“We’re Veela. We can run longer.” She returned testily. For a moment, he seemed surprised to have gotten a reply when he’d spoken so lowly, but nodded nonetheless.

No one spoke as they filed into the house. In the sitting room, Harry, Ron and Hermione squeezed onto the couch together, while Fleur remained standing behind the lioness.

“Actually, I think it would be best if we do this individually. I only have a few questions, you see. So, if you three”—he gestured to Hermione, Fleur and Harry—“will wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald.”

No one gave indication of leaving.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Harry said, looking Scrimgeour dead in the eye. “You can speak to us together or not at all.”

The Minister looked over the gathered four, lingering on the cold, faceted waters of Fleur’s eyes. He seemed to be considering whether it was worthwhile to open hostilities this early on.

“Fine,” he conceded. “Together, then. I am here, as I’m sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”

The three Gryffindors looked at one another.

“A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?”

“Us?” Ron asked, gesturing to himself, Hermione and Harry.

“Yes. Fleur, I’m afraid, was not left anything.”

The Veela watched with a neutral expression. Dumbledore had given her far more than he could ever realize, though these gifts were not tangible. He’d given her knowledge, dangerous tasks that served only to strengthen her physical and mental capacity, as well as leeway when it came to her relation with Hermione. The Minister studied her for any trace of resentment or disappointment, and to his dismay, found nothing.

“Dumbledore died over a month ago.” Harry said sharply. “Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione asked before the Minister could open his mouth. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that.” Anger was seething though her words as she spit them.

“I had every right,” Scrimgeour returned dismissively. “The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will—”

“That law was created to stop wizards from passing on Dark artifacts,” Hermione growled. “And the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?”

“Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?”

“No, I’m not,” Hermione retorted. “I’m planning to do some good in the world.”

Ron barked a laugh. Scrimgeour’s eyes flicked to him and away again as Harry spoke.

“So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?”

“No,” Fleur spoke for the first time. Only Scrimgeour looked at her, while the other three remained staring at him. “It wouldn’t have been the lack of a pretext.”

“No, you’re right, darling,” Hermione said softly. “It’ll be because the thirty-one days are up. They can’t keep the objects longer than that unless there can prove they’re dangerous, isn’t that right, _Minister?”_

The bits of skin was were free of eyebrow and beard flushed red.

“I see,” Hermione murmured, leaning back into the sofa with her arms crossed.

“Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?” Scrimgeour asked, not bothering to give any more confirmation to Hermione’s words.

“Me?” Ron asked, looking startled. “Not—not really… it was always Harry who…” Ron glanced around at Harry and Hermione who were glaring at him with _stop-talking-now!_ looks. Scrimgeour looked as though he’d heard exactly what he’d wanted to hear. He swopped down on Ron.

“If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?”

“I…dunno,” said Ron. “I…when I say we weren’t close… I mean, I think he liked me…”

“You’re being modest, Ron,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore was very fond of you.”

Scrimgeour straightened, keeping his eye on Ron, and drew a scroll of parchment, which he unraveled, and read aloud.

_“‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’…_ Yes, here we are… _‘To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’”_

Scrimgeour took a large pouch from his cloak, similar to the pouch Harry had received, and from it drew what appeared to be a silver cigarette lighter. He passed it to Ron, who rolled it over in his hands in wonder and awe.

“That is a valuable object,” said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. “It may even be unique. Certainly of Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?”

Ron only shook his head.

“Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students,” Scrimgeour continued, undaunted. “Yet the only ones he remembered in his will were you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?”

“Put out lights, I s’pose,” Ron mumbled. “What else could I do with it?”

Evidently the Minister had no suggestions. He turned his attention to Hermione’s portion in Dumbledore’s will. _“‘To Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.’”_

Scrimgeour reached into the bag again, and pulled out an ancient book bound in stained and peeling leather. Hermione took it wordlessly into her lap, and for several long moments, Scrimgeour was free from her gaze. She drew her eyes over the cover, and read the runes embossed across it. Tears welled in her eyes, and one splashed against the old leather.

“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?”

“He… he knew I like books,” she said softly. Fleur offered her a tissue and she took it gratefully, and willed the unshed tears away.

“But why that one in particular?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “He must have thought I’d enjoy it.”

“Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?”

“No, I didn’t. And if the Ministry hasn’t found any hidden code in thirty-one days, I doubt I will.” She growled, her eyes locking on the Minister again. Even though they still held tears, her eyes were dangerous, daring him to say another word against her.

Scrimgeour turned to Harry, wordlessly dismissing the lioness. _“‘To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.’”_

“Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?”

“No idea,” Harry returned. “For the reasons you just read out, I suppose… to remind me what you can get if you… preserve and whatever it was.”

“You think this a mere symbolic token, then?”

“I suppose so. What else could it be?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Scrimgeour said, neither angrily nor sharply, but Fleur shifted uncomfortably all the same. The Minister’s presence weighed heavily on her, the scent of danger was thick in her nose, and she desperately wished the conversation over.

“I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch,” the Minister continued, unaware of Fleur’s anxiety. “Why is that?”

Hermione snorted. “Oh, it can’t be in reference to the fact that Harry’s a great Seeker, that’s way too obvious. There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!”

“I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing. But, I do think a Snitch would be a good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I’m sure?”

Harry shrugged, but Hermione answered as through the question was meant for her.

“Snitches have flesh memories.”

“Correct. A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch”—he held up the tiny golden ball—“will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you.”

Harry was silent for several long moments.

“You don’t say anything,” said Scrimgeour. “Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?”

“No,” Harry returned softly. “I don’t know.”

“Take it,”

Harry met the Minister’s eyes, and reached out for the Snitch. The moment it touched his skin, his heart skipped a beat, but nothing happened.

“That was dramatic,” Harry said coolly. Ron chuckled.

“That’s all, then, is it?” the lioness asked, again locking the Minister in her gaze.

“Not quite.” The ire in the Minister’s voice was sorely evident. “Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter.” Harry looked up from the Snitch, excitement rekindling. Without bothering to read from the scroll, the Minister continued. “The sword of Godric Gryffindor.” However, he made no move to retrieve it.

“Where is it?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Unfortunately, that sword was not Dumbledore’s to give away, as it has the ability to choose to present itself to any worthy Gryffindor. Why do you think—”

“Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?” said Harry testily. “Maybe he thought it’d look nice on my wall.”

“This is not a joke, Potter!” he growled. “Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do so many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Interesting theory,” Harry returned hotly. “Has anyone tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying—I was nearly one of them, George was nearly one of them—Voldemort chased me across three countries, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there’s been no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you expect us to cooperate with you!”

“You go too far!”

At the same moment Scrimgeour lurched to his feet, Fleur vaulted over the back of the couch and landed in the small space between the Minister and the three Gryffindors. His anger abated for a moment as he looked at the object that broke his line of sight before his eyes narrowed.

“I believe this meeting is finished.” She said lowly, mirroring his distaste. Her eyes flickered down to his drawn wand and where it rested directly above her chest before they returned to bore into his. “Lower your wand, Minister.”

“I will not be given orders!”

“I’m afraid you have no choice.”

The door burst open to admit Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. “We—we thought we heard raised voices,” Arthur said, looking thoroughly alarmed as he saw a wand a Fleur’s chest, while her own was neglected at her belt. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Nothing,” Scrimgeour said at once, dropping his wand with a quick, seething look at Fleur. “Nothing, I forgot myself, is all.” He turned to look at Harry. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you—what Dumbledore—desired. We ought to be working together.”

“I don’t like your methods, Minister,” Harry returned. “Remember?” he said, and lifted his right hand. In thin, white scars, the words _I must not tell lies_ shone out in contrast with his skin. The Minister’s expression hardened, and Fleur took a single step to the right, blocking Harry again. Wordlessly, Scrimgeour turned and limped from the room; Mrs. Weasley hurried after him. Several long seconds passed before she shouted over her shoulder, “It’s all right, he’s gone!” Fleur relaxed instantly, and let out a sigh. Hermione ran a hand over her shoulders in comfort.

“What did he want?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“To give us what Dumbledore left us. They’ve only just released the contents of his will.”

Mrs. Weasley entered the room again, and ushered everyone outside again, where Tonks and Lupin rejoined them. At the picnic table, the book, Deluminator, and the Snitch were passed around and examined, while they lamented the fact that the Minister had refused to pass on the sword. No one could offer a plausible explanation for the old Snitch, and left it to Dumbledore’s statement in the will. After much speculating, they fell to dinner and quickly departed with the promise of seeing them all the next day for the wedding.

While they were restoring the garden to its normal state, and as Fleur carried dishes inside, Harry caught Hermione’s eye. She approached swiftly with the pretense of Vanishing more streamers.

“Meet us upstairs, after everyone’s asleep.”

Hermione nodded.

 

Fleur had been exhausted from a hard day of work and then the party, and fell asleep shortly after she’d crawled in bed. The lioness hated herself, but met the other two in the attic room, where Ron was examining his Deluminator and Harry was filling the mokeskin purse, not with gold, but with items very dear to him such as the Marauder’s Map, the shard of Sirius’s enchanted mirror, and R.A.B.’s locket. Hermione folded herself on the floor, and murmured _“Muffiato,”_ to the door behind her.

“Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?” Ron asked.

“Times change,” she returned. “Now, show us that Deluminator.”

Ron obliged at once. The solitary lamp went out and the room was bathed in darkness.

“The thing is,” Hermione whispered, “We could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.”

There was a small _click,_ and the ball of light flew back to the ceiling, throwing their shadows to the floor.

“Still, it’s cool. And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!”

“I know, but he wouldn’t have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the lights!”

“D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he’d left us?” Harry asked.

“No doubt,” Hermione snorted. “He couldn’t tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that still doesn’t explain…”

“…why couldn’t he have given us a hint when he was alive?” Ron finished.

Hermione frowned, flipping through the book she’d received. “Exactly. If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you’d think he’d have let us know why…unless he thought it was obvious?”

“Thought wrong, didn’t he?” Ron returned. “I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Laving Harry with an old Snitch—what the hell was that about?”

Hermione shook her head. “When Scrimgeour made you take it, I thought for sure something was going to happen.”

“Well, I didn’t try very hard, did I?” Harry asked, his heart picking up speed.

Hermione’s ear caught the change, and she looked up in question.

“The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match? Don’t you remember?”

Ron was now looking between Harry, and the Snitch in his hand, his mouth agape but no sound came forth.

“You nearly swallowed it…” Hermione murmured, realization dawning on her.

“Exactly,” and with that, he pressed the Snitch to his lips. The Snitch, however, did not open. Disappointment settled over harry again, until Hermione excitedly said, “Look! Writing!”

Sure enough, engraved upon the smooth golden surface of the Snitch where there had been nothing before, Dumbledore’s slanted handwriting scrawled the words: _I open at the close._

The three recited the words over and over again, racking their brains, but to no avail. The little sentence vanished after a few seconds, and they moved on to ponder the sword of Godric Gryffindor, and _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

“I wonder what Dumbledore expects me to glean from this?” Hermione murmured softly, running her hand over the cover. “I’ve never heard of Beedle the Bard before,”

“You’ve never heard of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard?”_ Ron asked, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not! Do you know them, then?”

“Of course I do! They’re children’s stories, aren’t they? You know, ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’… ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’… ‘Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump’…”

“What was that last one?” Hermione asked, laughing softly.

“Oh, come off it! You must have heard of Babbitty Rabbitty—”

“Ron, Harry and I were brought up by Muggles. We didn’t hear those stories when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’ and ‘Cinderella’—”

“What’s that, an illness?”

Hermione repressed a sigh and bent back over the runes. “So these are children’s stories?”

“Yeah,” said Ron uncertainly. “That’s just what you hear, you know, that all these stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the original versions.”

“But I wonder why Dumbledore though I should read them?”

Something creaked downstairs.

“Probably Charlie, now that Mum’s asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair,” said Ron nervously.

“We should probably get to bed now, too,” Harry murmured. “But, Hermione,” The lioness paused at the door. “I—I’ve thought again—”

Hermione lifted a hand at once. “Don’t. I know. I’ve prepared. Don’t say anything more.”

With that, she slipped silently from the room. She made her way silently to the sitting room, and lit a lamp. Slowly, she spread a piece of parchment across the table, drew a quill, and wrote a letter. She signed her name at the bottom, folded it, and returned to her bedroom where it was stored safely inside _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ The book was then tucked away inside her beaded bag, and pushed beneath the bed. With a sigh, she sat down, and gently roused Fleur.

The Veela blinked owlishly up at her, and turned to face her.

“Can’t sleep, love?” she mumbled, reaching out to her. Hermione fell into her embrace heavily, and nuzzled close to her. “You know what the best way to get to sleep is, don’t you?”

Hermione flushed. “I do. Be slow, please.”  

And she was. Hermione took her time in memorizing every inch of skin, every stroke, every breath. Her hands traced over the contours of Fleur’s shoulders, back and hips, reveling in soft skin and gentle heat. She committed every inch of the Veela to memory, she filled her senses with her, drowned herself in her voice and breathy moans. With intrepid fingers, she mapped the hills and valleys of Fleur’s body, and allowed herself the luxury to follow with her lips. She worshipped her Veela, and punctuated every kiss, every breath, with words of love.

They lay wrapped in each other’s arms, Hermione held tightly to the Veela, while Fleur’s hold was loose with exhaustion as she was already asleep again. The lioness snuggled against her chest, tucking herself under the Veela’s chin. A deep sigh stretched her ribs, and with utmost reluctance, surrendered to sleep.

 

When dawn broke, it was with bright, perfect sunshine. It streamed merrily though the window and danced upon Fleur’s sleeping form, and, as usual, Hermione was the first to wake. The covers had been kicked to the foot of the bed long ago, leaving Fleur’s body bare to the morning. She watched as the dawn chased shadow away, as the rays tangled around her face and body. Hermione found herself both unable and unwilling to look away. She counted the breaths Fleur drew, counted the freckles that graced her body, and carved the gentle curve of her waist into her memory. Blonde hair tumbled over her chest and shoulders and shone as the sun kissed each strand.

“You’re beautiful…” she murmured into the silence. With a gentle hand, she traced over Fleur’s ribs and was rewarded with a shiver.

“Am I?”

The lioness blushed, and chanced a glance to Fleur’s eyes. They remained closed, sooty lashes resting atop pale cheeks, untouched since waking. She could see the sands of sleep still gathered on them.

“You are.”

“You’ve been waking up next to me for the better part of three years,” the blonde chided softly, lifting her eyebrows though her eyes remained closed.

“I could sit for hours and find new ways to be awed each minute,” the lioness murmured. “You are truly the most beautiful creature I’ve ever had the privilege of laying eyes on.”

“Thank you, but I must disagree. I do believe I am looking at the most beautiful specimen to ever grace the earth,”

Hesitantly, Hermione met the Veela’s eyes. The sunlight now reached up to dance in the dark waters there, revealing the strands of sapphire that made up mountains and valleys and left no darkness there. She lost herself in those gorgeous eyes as she dragged her gaze over every depression and ridge of color. She’d never seen a deeper blue. She’d thought it impossible to see entire worlds shrunken to fit in the eyes of one’s lover, but there they were, hung with the utmost care. As she committed each detail to memory, her hand began its own study. Her fingers followed a well-trodden path over her ribs, to her hip and back again, every touch both an apology and a benediction. 

“I love you,” she murmured softly, a hand reaching up to cup the Veela’s cheek. She sighed and nuzzled against it, her eyes closed in bliss.

“I love you, too,” she returned, barely breaking the stillness of the morning. They lay there quietly, basking in the morning sun and the presence of one another until Mrs. Weasley called them down to breakfast.

They reluctantly stepped into the dresses Tonks had approved, and just before the ceremony began, Hermione returned to the room with sorrow heavy in her heart. A quick glance out the window confirmed that Fleur was putting the final finishing touches along the alter and tents. Hermione drew a deep breath and held her wand in shaking fingers.

In a hoarse voice she whispered, _“Expecto Patronum.”_ Light streamed feebly from her wand for a moment before it flickered and died. She grit her teeth and summoned the spell again, this time with steel in her voice. The white lioness took form before her, looking about as if to question why she’d been called. No danger was detected, and with an almost incredulous expression, she turned to her caster.

Hermione sagged with the breath she released, unaware that she’d been holding it. The Patronus’s appearance soothed her slightly, and with a little wave, she dismissed it. From the pages of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ she drew the letter she’d written the night before. With a set jaw and glassy eyes, she folded the parchment and left it atop Fleur’s pillow.  

 

The wedding was a quiet affair. No more than thirty guests attended, but the reception was thrown with gusto. Fleur was tasked with setting the table inside, carefully placing the dishes in a very particular order along the length of the table. Again and again, she fluffed the centerpiece of flowers, making sure everything was perfect for the new couple’s wedding presents, should they decide to abandon their firewiskey and champagne. After waitressing in the Three Broomsticks, she was an expert at tidying and setting tables despite the time that had passed since the last table she’d bussed. She immersed herself in her task, smiling up as Hermione entered the room, one arm wrapping around the Veela’s waist and her lips against her shoulder.

“Why don’t you come back outside? Everyone’s having loads of fun, and you promised you’d dance with me tonight.”

Fleur straightened and turned in Hermione’s arms, kissing her forehead gently. “And I shall do just that. I just wanted everything to be perfect for Lupin and Tonks whenever they decide to open their gifts, but I’ll be right out.” She smiled at the Gryffindor lovingly, before offering her pinkie. “I promise.”

Hermione rolled her eyes with a chuckle, but took the blonde’s finger in her own nonetheless. “I’ll save you a glass of champagne, then.” The brunette rose to her tiptoes and kissed Fleur, very gently, very slowly, her hand cupping the blonde’s cheek as though she were fragile. This was a new kind of kiss, one that did not elicit any kind of sexual desire, but one that said everything words cannot perceive. It was a sweet kiss, but somehow laden sorrow and great compassion. Hermione’s lips moved against Fleur’s in an intimate, warm embrace that seemed to last ages, but was over in moments. The Veela’s eyes fluttered open to find the Gryffindor looking up at her with an unreadable expression in her eyes.

“I love you, Fleur Delacour.” The words left the witch’s lips with a thick conviction, as though she were breathing out her life’s purpose. A final, quick kiss and Hermione left the room, throwing her hair over one shoulder as she looked behind her back at the blonde; the look in her eye seemed to invite a chase. There was something else within the hazel of the Gryffindor’s eye, something deeper that Fleur could not read from such a distance; something that echoed quietly as if from a far-away land in which the Veela had never trodden.

Fleur smiled and cupped her own cheek, still warm with blush. It was hard to resist the urge to chase after the lioness, but she managed, finally arranging the wedding gifts in such a way that they would not topple over, and retained the impressive geometry of boxes themselves.

Her foot was on the threshold of the backdoor when it happened. A bright white light streaked from non-being, and formed into a lean, graceful lynx. The voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt boomed from the opaque feline.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They’re coming.”

The guests scattered, Apparated, or otherwise ran. Screams and shouts were thrown to the dusk and Fleur stood, rooted to the spot, the heel of one foot raised where she had prepared to take another step. She suddenly leapt into life, her legs carrying her across the lawns and her pupils fully dilated against the harsh lantern-light. Hermione was nowhere to be seen. Her heart, frantic in her chest, desperately pumped adrenaline-filled blood through her system as she continued her desperate search.

Tall, cloaked, masked figures loomed towards them. The Veela paid them nearly no heed at all, but continued to run anxiously about in frenzy for her beloved. A spell hit her square in the back, stealing her will to move her body as she hit the ground heavily. Her eyes wheeled in their sockets, the lids pulled back in the terror and fright-filled look now frozen on the blonde’s paralyzed features, her upper lip pulled back to show her teeth, although she did not yet bare fangs. An unknown hand snatched up her own and she found herself being sucked though the small, squeezing tube of Apparation. When the spinning stopped, the curse was not lifted; instead, Bill Weasley’s voice was soft at her ear.

“Do not Apparate back to the house, Fleur. She’s not there, I saw them leave. Please listen to me. There’s something much bigger going on, something so big none of them told any of us. Not even you. Please, listen. It’s not safe to go back.” He softly murmured the countercurse and Fleur sprang up from the ground, curses of her own falling rapidly from her lips. She had just begun to turn her body when Bill grabbed her hand and rocked her off balance.

“Why? Why would she leave? And not tell me! What am I good for, if not holding her secrets? Why—” Bill clamped a hand over her mouth as tears poured from her eyes. She fought instantly, her eyes narrowed and her pupils began to slit; he recognized the signs and released his friend promptly.

“Please keep your voice down,” he murmured before she spoke again. “I can’t answer your questions. Just, please, listen to me and—” he snatched her arm as she prepared to Apparate. “Do not return home.” He took a seat on the grass and looked around him. “Best we wait here till Dad sends his Patronus, might as well sit.”

Fleur did not sit. She chose to pace around in circles, trying to divide the need to return from logical courses of action.

“Where are we?” She finally asked.

“A forest in Romania,” Bill answered. “First place to come to mind, honestly, and safe, too.” Fleur nodded and remained silent.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” She said after several long moments. Bill threw her a questioning look but she did not give voice to more thoughts. The sky had darkened to sunset purples and light blues when a small streak of light finally burst from the forest. A weasel sat upright and stared Bill in the eye.

“They’re gone, but watching us. Apparate directly into the house, I’ve lowered the wards for you.” And the weasel disintegrated before them.

Fleur arrived in the kitchen before Bill had a chance to rise. The remainder of the Weasley family had gathered there, wedding gifts still unopened at the table Fleur had set seemingly ages ago. Lupin and Tonks were nowhere to be seen, but George reassured her that they were safe. Molly ran forward and cried into the Veela’s chest, quaking with every breath. Fleur looked around at the others; they looked away from her and focused elsewhere.

“Fleur, darling,” Molly managed, “Hermione left you something upstairs. I came across it when I looked for them; there wasn’t a name, but…” She fell into sobs again. Bill arrived at that moment and took his mother into his arms at once. Fleur, feeling the tears soak into her dress, set her course for the stairs to her shared room with Hermione.

The brunette’s things still lay in organized disarray as they had that morning, but atop of Fleur’s pillow lay a note, unaddressed and unfolded. Shaking, Fleur sat upon the bed, the same one she and Hermione had made love in the previous night, lifted the letter to her eyes and read, her heart beating unevenly in her breast.

A loud, booming shriek filled the house and shook its foundations. It was the kind of noise that hurt one’s throat to hear, let alone utter. It resembled the razors of anguish and whirlwinds of confusion, a noise that held such misery words can never hope to convey. Bill ran upstairs, burst into Fleur’s room only to find emptiness and the echo of the screech that ended abruptly. The letter was nowhere to be found.


	15. Thy Soul Shall Find Itself Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dears! I'm terribly sorry for the cliffhanger on that last one. This next one will answer some of your questions, though. It's a long one, so settle in. A box of tissues may or may not be necessary, our dear Fleur is having quite a hard time indeed. However, I implore you to stick with me. This fic is about to go drastically off the rails its been on for the better part of two years (holy shit it's been almost two years) so the book plot won't be as center-stage as it has been in the past. I continue to follow the main storyline, of course, and I hope you find it entertaining. This chapter's title comes from my dear Edgar's poem, 'Secrets of the Dead,' which is quite fitting, I think. And now, I shall stop my ramblings and hope to hear from you soon! Sorry for the bruised feels, loves.  
> Much love and apologies (please don't hunt me down with knives and pitchforks),  
> ReginaCorda

_I know this will hurt, but it must be done. I’m leaving. I will not tell you when I’ll return, nor will I seek you out, so please don't waste what time you have seeking me.The truth is I have decided that a life without you is what I need. I do not need you. I have missions to fulfill and I cannot do my duty if you’re in my thoughts as a distraction. This is best for the both of us. I hope you can understand._

_Hermione_

Fleur waited for her grandmother to finish reading the letter. The ancient Veela’s eyes wavered as they passed over the words. Finally, she looked up and examined her granddaughter’s bent form and empty eyes, no longer proud, no longer strong. She looked sick. Weak. Like she was fighting off a disease her immune system was unable to produce antibodies for. Tears streamed shamelessly from her eyes, down her cheeks, splattering on the floor. Fleur made no move to wipe them from her face.

The disease seeped into her bones, into her marrow, and slowly began to eat her from the inside out. It was only a matter of time before other symptoms claimed her body, as hypertension was already settling in, and others began to bleed into her head. Schizophrenia whispered from the corners of her conscious mind, and slowly blurred the line between reality and illusion. Anxiety began to gnaw a hole in her stomach, and left her tear ducts twitching. Paranoia left a sickly, cold trickle running down her spine.

“Go into the forest, child.” Asteria said softly. “Go and live the remainder of your life there amongst the trees. Die there, Fleur. No remedy can heal this.”

Fleur nodded and rose. She handed her wand to her grandmother, who carefully placed it on a shelf. The ancient Veela held the door open to her as she passed. Tentatively, she reached out and touched her shoulder.

“I love you, dear. You’ve done well.” Fleur acted as though she had not heard. She staggered to the edge of the forest, and ripped her dress from her body with short, jerky movements. She stepped out of her shoes and left her belongings where they lay. The summer’s breeze found her skin and raised mountain chains.

Without thought, she stepped forward. She’d entered this place many a time during her childhood, playing with the other Veela daughters, learning how to track and hunt, and, on Saturdays, was unwillingly taught numbers and the alphabet. Then, she’d grown into a lady and was sent off to school, pulled forcibly away from her beloved forest.

She saw, peering into the shadows, the long-forgotten trails she and her comrades had made on their many outings here; the earth beaten smooth from the many running footfalls that once so heavily trod. The trails, so vivid in memory, were now lost beneath many layers of fallen leaves and summer grasses.

A deep breath in, and she took another step. And then another. She walked aimlessly through the trees, away from the familiarity of the places she knew, and further into the unknown darkness she’d never entered. Thorns and brambles struck her skin, but she felt nothing. Blood trickled from her wounds but she paid no mind. Her fractured mind was focused on the previous events of that day. How the young Gryffindor had looked into her eyes just before she left without a trace. How she’d kissed her as though she were breath after a long dive. How, just that morning, they’d lain together, naked, basking in the early light, the brunette’s hand lazily tracing over her skin, her voice whispering so low as to not disturb the stillness, telling her how very much she loved her…

Tears ran anew. They fell from her cheeks and raced over her chest, mingling with blood as they found wounds. She knew the salt should sting against the broken flesh, but she didn’t feel anything. How desperately she wished to feel! She longed for anything except the stuttering beat of her heart and the sobs that sent spasms through her chest. She yearned to feel the cooling earth beneath her feet, the barbs strike her skin, anything to tell her she was alive, that she was dreaming and it was time to wake up, to return to her lover’s arms and kisses and boundless love…

But she didn’t wake. She continued walking, her tears streamed on relentlessly. Insects feasted upon the expanse of bare skin. The moon rose into the sky, chasing away the last of the sun’s rays and dyeing the sky in ever-encroaching dark blues against bloodshot reds. The shadows grew longer, but the Veela walked on without hesitance. The forest was vast and endless; to cross it was sure to enter into another world. She continued without vigor. If she did cross and enter another world, she would not stop to celebrate. She would go on, into the next forest, into the next neighboring world. At this depth of sorrow, she would continue her aimless march even after inevitable death.

A dark cloud exhaled a bitter wind, chilling the Veela to the bone. Her naked body shivered against it, her tears stinging her face with cold. The night held strange noises and sights; the gnarled branches of a tree appeared as long-fingered hands reaching out to snatch the blonde and drag her to impending death as their shadows where thrown to the ground by light of the pale moon. What had been, once upon a time, the cheerful call of birds had harshened to the shriek of night species, warding off other predators and startling potential prey.

Fleur trudged on, unaware of these nightly wars raging around her. She didn’t feel the cold, even though her body reacted violently to it, she didn’t consciously hear the screams of night fauna, though her head pounded with every cry; she did not feel the chilling earth, even as her tendered feet protested and grew heavier with each staggering step. Her eyes began to swell, and she soon lost her sight, but still she did not pause, and stumbled blindly forth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Across the world, Hermione sat in the dark sitting room of Number 12. She wrung her hands together, silent sobs wracking her body. Her eyes, coated with a glassy sheen, stared into the flicker of the embers as they lay dying amongst the mantle. She’d done it, and now, regretted it immensely. Oh, how desperately she wished the blonde Veela had followed her outside when she’d presented her a challenge! How dearly she wished her past self had never released her hand! If she hadn’t, perhaps the blonde would be with her at this moment. Perhaps she would feel her warmth, rather than that of the meager fire. Perhaps she could help her in her mission.

Oh, but how dangerous her quest was! How dreadfully unfair and stacked against her! _If you had her with you,_ her mind whispered through her delirium, _you’d still hate yourself. Put her in danger to die with you? Be merciful in knowing she’s probably already dead._ The thought sent a sob ripping through her throat.

She chose to leave. She chose to break the partnership. She would be spared death by law of the sirens, for they, the martyrs they were, so deeply loved they only wanted what their beloveds wanted, even if it wasn’t them. But the Veela? Only time could tell her. She shakily drew her wand, and desperately called her Patronus, but the silver lioness did not emerge. A meager shield sputtered forth, and died with her next sob. 

Harry, unbeknownst to her, stood at the doorway, peering in nervously. She had a pillow clutched to her chest, her hair a tangled, bushy mess, and he could just barely see the corner of her eye from where he stood. A deep purple bruise had formed there, no doubt from the previous night’s lack of sleep, sacrificed to lay beside her beloved, to bask in her warmth and love, knowing she would walk away the next day. Admittedly, he’d heard their lovemaking that night. They had been quiet, for sure, but the whispered sentiment of ‘I love you’ was repeated with every breath, and drew daggers through him. He’d heard Hermione’s soft sobbing after Fleur had fallen asleep, he’d seen her pack up the blonde’s nightshirt the next morning. He’d watched as the tears dissolved away as if they’d never been there, and as a well-practiced mask disguised the turmoil underneath the surface, as she feigned happiness and congratulated Lupin and Tonks.

Somewhere up above, Ron tripped and Sirius’s mother began screaming. He himself jumped at the sound, tea cups clattering on a tray gave away his presence, but Hermione made no movement at all, save for the shuddering of her shoulders as she cried. He sighed, and pushed the door open.

Hermione’s eyes never wavered from their stare as he sat beside her, pouring a cup. He sat in awkward silence for a few moments before pulling her into his arms. At his embrace, she lost all hold on herself. She screamed, beating his chest with her fists, pulled at her hair, sobbed so loud and so long, she lost her breath and gasped for air she didn’t want to breathe. Her eyes streamed so much they swelled; her hands became red and raw as the friction against Harry’s shirt tore into her skin. Her nose filled with what her eyes couldn’t release, cutting off her airway several times. She bore her teeth against it, sucking in the tainted, musty, impure air void of Fleur’s scent or warmth. Sirius’s mother attempted to compete with her, howling back, but was easily drowned out by Hermione.

For a terrifying moment, Harry’s heart stopped. He remembered what Fleur said happens to a mate if their Veela dies. The screaming, the clawing, baring teeth… he was petrified. But finally, after a near hour of wailing, Hermione slumped exhausted against him. Fear still ebbed at him, and he checked her pulse every now and then just to make sure she was still alive. He pondered silently, watching the steam rise from his neglected teacup, rubbing gently at the bruises forming on his chest. Why was Hermione still alive, if in fact Fleur was dead? That’s how it worked; he’d been told by the Veela herself. He did not know much about the Veela culture or laws, but he knew his best friend had left her heart with the Veela; it was obvious in the way she cried, and now, whimpered syllables of Fleur’s name in her sleep.

 _She must be alive…_ he thought. _She must still be alive. They still love each other… that’s the only possibility…_

Tiredly, he stroked Hermione’s hair, conjured a tissue and gently dabbed at her face and eyes. He studied his friend for a long moment. She’d given up so much for his sake: her education, her sanity, her parents, her beloved, perhaps her life, one day. She’d sacrificed everything she had and held dearest, for fear they would be ripped from her grasp due to the loyalty and friendship she shared with him; due to his scar and his name and the sequence of events that made him who he was. Wordlessly, he made a vow, one that sat in the bottom of his heart as a boulder would. If they ever made it out of this mess alive, and their world was still intact, he would never allow her to sacrifice anything in his name ever again. She’d lost far too much already.

His lips, pressed into a grim line, cracked into a fond smile as he realized how closely she resembled a lion at the present moment. Though asleep, disheveled, and puffy-eyed, her hair splayed about her in a wild mane, one hand curled into the fabric of his shirt so tightly he could feel her nails pressing into his skin. Carefully, he settled himself, being ever mindful of Hermione, and pulled the blanket over them. He’d hate himself in the morning when he woke, stiff in neck and unarmed with a clean teapot, but he remained there with her, falling asleep sometime during the early morning.

 

Sure enough, the next morning left Harry incredibly stiff and sore, though he woke up with a start to find Hermione still lay on top of him. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and felt fresh tears seeping into his shirt. Gently, he stroked her shoulder.

“Why don’t you go on upstairs and have a hot shower, yeah? Maybe you’ll feel a bit better,” he offered weakly. She nodded wordlessly, rose, and made her way upstairs. She stepped under a fountain of ice-cold water, and felt her body go numb. Her knees buckled, and she slumped against a wall of the shower. Water poured over her and swirled down the drain; the motion stole away all her attention. The endless twirl and disappearance of water captivated her, and she stared with a blank expression and blue lips. Time meant nothing as she watched droplets run down the wall, meet the bottom, and join the masses in pursuit of either freedom or imprisonment. Her whole body was shaking, rejecting the cold, but she hardly noticed.

She’d felt a much colder temperature before, of course. The night Dumbledore died. The night Harry showed her the Horcrux they’d went to collect. The memory crashed back into her conscious like unwelcome dinner guest.

_Harry asked both Hermione and Ron to follow him after he’d had a word with McGonagall. With a heavy, reluctant heart, the lioness followed, leaving Apolline to watch over Fleur as she slept._

_They walked along silent corridors. Harry led them in what appeared to be an aimless pattern. Hermione traded a glance with Ron, where they flanked Harry, but the former only shrugged and continued to follow. They found themselves in the clock tower of all places, utterly deserted and high above the ground, the entire campus stretched out before them._

_“Did you get it?” Ron asked softly._

_“No.” Harry returned curtly. “Well, yes, and no.”_

_Hermione turned to look wordlessly at him._

_“So what did you get, Harry?” Ron asked, approaching the pair._

_Harry’s face soured, and Hermione perked up with interest as he rummaged in his pocket, and drew closer to him. “This,” He held up a locket. “But it’s a fake. Open it.”_

_He dropped it into Hermione’s open palm, and she did as suggested._

_She turned the locket over in her hands. It didn’t bear the curving, serpentine ‘_ S _’ of Slytherin’s mark, and was much, much smaller than what Harry had described. Its weight didn’t lay heavily in her hand, nor did it sparkle with all the brilliance of a true and ancient emerald. What drew her attention was a piece of folded paper wedged inside where a portrait should have been. Anxiety curling in her abdomen, Hermione opened the locket, unfolded the note, and read it aloud._

_“‘To the Dark Lord: I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.’ Signed, R.A.B.” Hermione finished softly._

_The three were silent for a long time. Finally, Harry spoke._

_“We have to go find them,” he murmured. “We have to find them, destroy them, and finish him.”_

_Hermione drew a shaky breath. “I’ll hit the library to see if I can find anything about an R.A.B.”_

_“Hermione,” Harry said softly. “You… She can’t come with us.”_

_The lioness was stunned silent._

_“Dumbledore told me… he told me in the beginning it could only be the three of us. She can’t know about the Horcruxes. She can’t follow us.”_

_“She won’t just sit still, Harry,” Hermione half-laughed in disbelief. “What else do you think she’d do?” Harry didn’t respond._

_“Harry you can’t be…” she whispered, suddenly choked of breath. “She’ll follow me, she’ll fight beside me, she’ll die for me, she’ll do anything I ask of her!” her breathing became shallow, her heart thundered in her chest at the prospect of telling Fleur she couldn’t follow her. The terrible sinking of her heart when she knew with utmost certainty that the Veela would follow anyway, and likely die in the process, taking the lioness with her._

_“It’s too dangerous, Hermione,” Harry said, his voice soft but his words firm. “The more people that know, the greater risk we have. I only want to protect her.”_

_“You want to leave her! After all she’s done for you?!” Hermione’s voice was several octaves higher than usual, tears welling in her eyes as she stared, unblinking, at Harry. “Have you any idea how many people she killed last night? For you, for me, for bloody fucking children! Have you felt her magic, or were you entirely absent from Hogwarts when she helped_ you teach _the D.A.? She could help us so much, Harry! Please,” her knees began to shake; she had to grip the banister to keep from falling. Her voice softened as she begged Harry, barely breaking silence. “Please let her come with us…”_ Let her come with me…

_“Hermione…” his voice was tired, somber, disheartened. “I wish with all my heart she could come with us. But Dumbledore made me swear to obey him, and that began with the confidence between the three of us. Perhaps if you leave, they won’t prosecute her because soon, anyone who’s in league with us will be hunted down, I’m sure of it. And if she dies…”_

_Hermione hit the floor. “If I leave, it would kill her anyway! We’ll both be dead!” she sobbed, looking up at Harry with terror shinning in her eyes. “We are halves, Harry! Halves! If one is gone—” Suddenly, Asteria’s words crashed into her conscious mind. She brought her hand to her lips._ This can lie… _Shaking, her hand moved to clutch at the fabric over her heart._ But this cannot _. Her eyes hardened, and she shot up from the floor. Resolve steeled her but uncertainly still wavered beneath it. Asteria had known, or at the very least guessed. Dumbledore had had a strong allegiance with her and her tribe. Surely, she wouldn’t have suggested such a thing if she had a doubt…_

_Silently, she nodded. Without speaking, she turned on her heel, and began her descent._

_“Where are you going?” Ron called out._

_“To see my mate, since we only have a little time left.”_

 

Harry found her curled into the fetal position on the floor, a towel thankfully wrapped around her. Her skin was ice cold, her hair unwashed and wild about her. He knelt on the floor and pulled her into his arms, brushing the hair away from her face as he tried to meet her eyes. She stared straight through him, and gave no indication of having heard his calls.

“…for Fleur.”

She turned her head slightly, her eyes wide. “What?” she asked softly, barely breaking the silence.

“I said, you need to be strong, keep going, even though it’s hard. You need to keep going for Dumbledore, for your parents, yourself, and most of all for Fleur.”

She drew a shaky breath, and nodded.

“Hey,” he said softly, turning her face to her again. “I know it won’t get better any time soon, but it will happen eventually. Just, try to keep a brave face, all right? Don’t try to rush it.”

She nodded, and squeezed him gently. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t… Don’t say her name. Please…”

Harry drew a deep breath. “Of course. I’ll go and put the kettle on, Ron’s making breakfast.”

She nodded, and remained on the floor after Harry had taken his leave. She still felt empty, hollow, but a little warmer now, and even mildly embarrassed due to her current state of undress, but Harry never once seemed to notice. His whole concern resided within her well-being and safety, and that gave her the drive to lift herself off the floor. She dressed with little enthusiasm, her mind churning with thoughts of the blonde Veela she’d left behind. She desperately hoped she was all right. She hoped she’d sacrificed enough.

When she came downstairs, Harry had her cup ready for her, and greeted her with a small smile. She avoided his gaze, and took her seat, sipping at her cup. Her eyes were horribly sunken in, the lids wan and purple. Her emptiness emanated from her very soul, and seemed to cast the whole room into a darker gloom. She was unfocused, thoughts slipping through her mind like water, and left behind no trace of ever having crossed. Harry watched her in silence, contemplating whether or not to break her reverie.

“Hermione?” he ventured softly. Dark eyes lifted to glance at him unsurely, as if she doubted that he’d called her name at all. “I was thinking, perhaps we could start looking around the house, see if we can find any clues about the Horcruxes. Would you join us? Please?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, and sipped at her cup. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He shuffled around in the kitchen and set a plate of toast and bacon before Hermione, and silently implored her to eat. Instead, she went back to her staring silently at her plate. Harry frowned mightily, but he hadn’t expected anything less. She’d actually surprised him by acknowledging his call and agreeing to it, and he supposed he should be thankful enough for that.

 

Two weeks passed in utter silence. Ron and Harry would converse quietly, but Hermione would never lift her voice. Every morning, Harry woke to her pressed to his side, desperate for warmth and comfort in the cold, dark house. He gladly gave her what he could, be it a silent hug or soft murmurings when she kicked him awake while in the throes of nightmare.

The morning of the sixteenth day he woke to find himself alone. Concern and anxiety flooded his system as he lurched from his bed. He bolted downstairs and flung himself into the kitchen to find the lioness curled on a chair, a book in her lap, and a cup of tea resting beside her hand. She lifted her head as she heard his approach, and he was shocked silent to see her eyes no longer rang with emptiness. They were hollow, ringed in dark purple, but no longer did they scream out in protest and agony. Instead, they sang mournfully from within their depths, every action executed with utmost precision as a tribute to her sacrifices so they would not be in vain.

“Umm, morning,” he said softly, trying to recover from his sudden and startling appearance.

“Morning,” she returned quietly as she lifted the book again. “There’s toast on the counter if you want some; I’ve already eaten.”

Somehow he doubted that, but gave her the benefit of the doubt and retrieved a piece of toast for himself. He slid into the seat across from her, and studied her carefully before he lifted his voice.

“How are you feeling?”

She drew a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it rush from her lungs. “Numb, Harry. I feel numb. I feel like I’m half a person. I feel like I’ve just came out from under anesthesia, and trying to regain my bearings. I just… I’m trying to focus on the mission, and not…her. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t want her to wallow and forget the reason why…” she took a shuddering breath and shook her head.

Harry was at her side in an instant, his arm curled around her shoulders. “It’s okay, ‘Mione. It’s all right. She’ll be fine. She’s bloody brilliant, and after this is all over, you can figure out what to say to her, how to apologize.”

Hermione closed her eyes against his shoulder. It couldn’t be that simple. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

“Look at the stars. Map them like she showed you. I don’t think she’s gone… lost, confused maybe, but not gone.”

Hermione began shaking her head rapidly, her eyes screwed shut. She’d just gathered the pieces of herself, though she was still missing several massive parts. She couldn’t afford to fall apart again. “I’ll look tonight. Until then, let’s, let’s search the house for clues, yeah? I think that’ll be a good distraction, and a step in the right direction.”

With that said, she thrust herself into every task with the utmost gusto. The faster they found the four remaining Horcruxes, the faster they could destroy the Dark Lord, and the faster she could find Fleur, beg and plead for her forgiveness. The faster she could run to the shores of Australia and bring her parents back. The faster she could rebuild the life she’d so carefully dismantled.

And so, one by one, they scoured the rooms, Ron joining them after he’d eaten. On the third floor at a room they’d never thought to look at twice, a door bore deep gouges in the paintwork and a pompous little, meticulously hand-painted sign that read

_Do Not Enter_

_Without the Express Permission of_

_Regulus Arcturus Black_

“My God…” Harry murmured.

“R.A.B.” excitement wavered under Hermione’s words for the first time in a long time.

“Sirius’s brother. He was a Death Eater. Sirius told me about him, said he joined up when he was really young, then got cold feet and tried to leave—so they killed him.”

Hermione bit back bile and felt Ron shiver behind her. Harry turned the knob only to find it was securely locked. Hermione drew her wand and with a swift flick, it opened obediently. They gave the room a once over, the Slytherin colors of green and silver faded on the walls, the Black family crest painstakingly painted over the bed along with the family motto of TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of newspaper clippings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage.

“They’re all about Voldemort,” Hermione murmured, reading the clips. “He must have been a fan for a while before he joined.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and started combing the room for any sign of the locket. Hours passed, and as they did, Harry and Ron found their gusto fading, as Hermione’s seemed to mount.

“Well, it could be in another room,” she said as they admitted defeat and went down for lunch. “Whether he’d managed to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here that summer? The clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at…at…”

Harry and Ron traded a look while Hermione’s eyes became unfocused again, but only to allow her mind free reign to whir.

“…at the time,” she finished.

“Something wrong?” Ron asked quietly.

“There was a locket. One nobody could open.” She swallowed audibly. “And… and we…”

Harry felt as though a brick had formed in his stomach and dropped out. He stood stock-still, his jaw slightly agape, his mind racing.

“Kreacher,” he croaked out. “Kreacher nicked loads of stuff back from us.” He said quietly, before he launched himself down the stairs. It was a slim chance, but he would take it nonetheless. In the kitchen, he wrenched the cabinets open and peered inside. Other than a nest of blankets and a dead rat, there was nothing. Cursing, he called Kreacher. The elf appeared with a loud crack just as Hermione and Ron found their way into the kitchen.

“Master,” he croaked, bowing low. “Back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood—”

“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood-traitor’ or ‘Mudblood’,” Harry growled. Kreacher bowed again, his lips moving silently. “I have a question for you, and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”

“Yes, Master,” the elf said, giving another bow.

“Two years ago, there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you take it back?”

There was a moment’s silence before Kreacher looked Harry fully in the face and answered, “Yes.”

“Where is it now?”

Kreacher looked away, distress written plainly across his features. “Gone.”

“Gone?” Harry echoed, all thought of jubilation having fled. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

Another bought of silence took reign. “Mundungus Fletcher.” He croaked out at last. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all: Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and—and—” Kreacher had begun gulping for air, his eyes bulging and finally he screamed, _“—and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket, Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed his orders!”_

Harry reacted instinctively as Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!” The elf froze under him, and Harry stood again. “Kreacher you may sit up, but do not do anything to harm yourself.”

The elf sat up, and Harry kneeled beside him. “Kreacher, how do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”

“Kreacher saw him!” the elf gasped, now openly weeping. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus laughed and r-ran…”

“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s’, where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Tell me everything you know about that locket and everything Regulus had to do with it.”

Kreacher curled into a ball, his wet face on his knees, and began to rock gently to and fro. When his spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns… and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve…

“And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said… he said…” the old elf rocked faster.

“.. he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”

“Voldemort needed an _elf?”_ Harry whispered, looking around at Hermione and Ron, both looking just as puzzled as he felt.

“Oh yes,” moaned Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do… and then to c-come home. So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake…”

The hairs along Harry’s neck rose and bristled. He remembered the cave and cavern as though he’d just visited it yesterday with Dumbledore…

“There was a boat…” he continued. “And a basin full of potion on the island. The Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it…” Kreacher had begun to shake from head to foot and his breathing became even more ragged. “Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw horrible things… Kreacher’s insides burned… Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed… he made Kreacher drink all the potion… He dropped a locket into the empty basin… He filled it with more potion. Then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island…”

Harry’s eyes were far away, lost in his own memories of the cave, cavern, and potion.

“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s edge and drank from the black lake… and hands, dead hands came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface…”

“How did you get away?” Hermione whispered, having seated herself on the floor as well.

Kreacher raised his head and looked away from her.

“Answer her.” Harry said, the command hard even as a whisper.

Kreacher grit his teeth and met Hermione’s eyes. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he said.

“Yes,” Harry said softly. “But how did you escape the Inferi?”

Kreacher did not seem to understand as he looked back to Harry. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back.” He repeated.

“He Disapparated.” Hermione said simply.

“Dumbledore and I couldn’t Apparate or Disapparate in the cave,” Harry protested.

Hermione only shook her head. “Elf magic isn’t like wizard magic, Harry. Voldemort wouldn’t have considered the possibility of elves having magic he didn’t.”

“The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” intoned Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home…”

“Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?” Hermione asked kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at all!”

Kreacher only shook his head, shaking faster.

“So what happened when you got back?” Harry asked softly. “What did Regulus say when you told him what happened?”

“Master Regulus was worried, very worried…” Kreacher croaked. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then… it was a little while later… Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell…and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord…”

“And he made you drink the potion?” Harry asked, disgusted.

Kreacher shook his head and wailed. Hermione’s hands flew to cover her mouth.

“Master Regulus… took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had,” Kreacher sobbed, great tears rolling down his face. “And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets…” his sobs came heavier, wrenching the breath from his lungs. “And he ordered—Kreacher to leave—without him. And he told Kreacher—to go home—and never tell my Mistress—what he had done—but to destroy—the first locket. And he drank—all the potion—and Kreacher swapped the lockets—and watched… as Master Regulus… was dragged beneath the water… and…”

Kreacher fell to the floor, shaking horribly as he tried to draw breath.

“So you brought the locket home,” Harry said relentlessly, desperate for the rest of the story. “And you tried to destroy it?”

“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” moaned the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work… so many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to get inside it, but it would not open… Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had forbidden him to tell any of the family what had happened in the cave…”

Words were lost on Kreacher, and he gave way to incoherent words. Harry studied the house-elf for a long a few silent, long minutes.

“I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” he said finally. “Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass on information to Voldemort through them…”

“Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” Hermione said. “He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn’t far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you’re going to say,” she said, her voice sharpening as he began to protest. “that Regulus changed his mind… but he doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus’s family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.”

“Sirius—”

“Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no good looking like that when you know it’s true. Kreacher had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a little bit of affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor and told them everything they wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did… and so did Sirius.”

Harry was silenced, and rightfully so. He stared at Kreacher where he lay sobbing on the floor, his head working through everything he’d heard and everything he remembered. In a softer, kinder voice, he finally addressed Kreacher again.

“Kreacher, when you feel up to it, please sit up.” After a few minutes, the house-elf hiccupped himself into silence and pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes like a small child.

“Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,” he said. A quick glance to Hermione was returned with a gentle smile, urging him to continue in his current manner. “Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket—Master Regulus’s locket is. It’s really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to—er—ensure that he didn’t die in vain.”

Kreacher dropped his fist and looked up at Harry. “Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked.

“And bring him here to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?”

As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry’s hand shot to the cord around his neck and retrieved the fake Horcrux.

“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you—”

Loud wails issued again from the little elf as he cried his appreciation. It took an hour and a half for him to calm after being presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own. The three Gryffindors accompanied him to his cupboard where he very carefully stowed the locket away, and promised him that its protection would be their first priority while he was away. Upon hearing this, Kreacher gave Harry and Ron deep bows, and even offered Hermione a little salute before he Disapparated to find Mundungus Fletcher.


	16. A Play of Hopes and Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, world! This one is rather short, so I thought I'd go ahead post it early. Don't worry, you'll get another one next weekend sometime. That being said, my beta has not proofed it, so if you notice anything out of whack, give me a holler. Anyways, hopefully your feelings have healed to some degree. If not... maybe you should wait a bit. Have fun, ya'll.  
> Much love,  
> RC
> 
> (Chapter title from Edgar's poem, 'The Conqueror Worm.')

She should be dead by now. It had been days. No, perhaps it had been weeks. No, had it been months? She hadn’t eaten in what felt like ages, but even as her body screamed in protest, she continued. As she staggered forward, phases of the moon were born and killed above her in the everlasting arc of sky over her head. An eclipse’s bloody light lit her silhouette, but never did she lift her gaze from the ground to look or ponder.

She trudged on through the endless trees, through the voices echoing in her head, through the fear she couldn’t escape. Her mind attacked itself, once her greatest asset now her greatest hindrance. She saw horrible things in the peaceful forest. Mud appeared as blood splashed on the forest floor, and streaked over her body, she thought it was her own. Gnarled branches were confused to be bones protruding from the ground. Shadows chased her, taunted her, pulled at her. Her body had long ago lost both the ability to create adrenaline and to run, so try as her torn, tattered instincts might, they didn’t have the materials to let her flee. So she staggered as quickly as she could, away from imaginary threats that crunched the shattered remains of her conscious underfoot. But they were always faster, biting at her heels and scratching deep gouges in her back when she fell, as she often did. She’d not stopped hyperventilating since the voices had started their shouting, her breath rattling through infection and inflamed bronchial tubes as she fought to outpace her assailant, never knowing that it existed in the prison of her own head.

As much abuse as her mind endured, her body took a similar beating. Infection ran rampant through her body, filling her sinuses with putrid mucus, trickling down her throat and laying claim to her lungs. Her breath came shallow and left in wheezing exhales, occasionally bringing her to the ground with deep, heavy coughs. Sweat dripped from her brow despite the racking shivers her body gave. The fever left her dizzy, her vision contorting her surroundings into a mass of greens, browns and grays.

 Her gums pried themselves loose from her teeth for lack of water. Her eyes had deep purple circles around them, the lids drooped against fatigue. Her skin bore testament of the abuse it endured by the brambles, insects, and dehydration. Her hair was matted, tangled; a few organisms had even begun to nest there as it was so unusually unkempt. Her vision blurred and the forest swam around her, adding more terror to the already horrendous products of her fractured mind. Mucus ran down her face as her weak immune system gave its last effort to rid itself of infection, as infection was won over. Life clung to her though she had no hold on it. It seemed to be somehow optimistic and reluctant to allow her leave, no matter how hard she tried to die.

Predators silently watched her pass, well aware of the sickness she carried and most unwilling to risk contracting it. They gave her a wide berth of space, her condition so deadly even the scavengers wouldn’t risk assisting her decomposition once she was dead.  

She lasted for three weeks. Sun beat down on the trees, her only shade provided by the branches overhead. When the sun sank, it took the warmth with it, leaving only the bitter cold and wet passage of night. It was late in the night when she encountered a river. It was very near stagnant, allowing her to trudge through it without much fuss. As she was climbing up the other side, her toes slipped into the mud, stealing her balance. When she fell, a branch interrupted her fall, and a large slab of stone met her on the ground, and rendered her unconscious.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione lay awake, alone, staring at the stars in her window. A patch of damp cotton rested beneath her cheek where she’d silently wept, as she’d done every night since the wedding. The days were passing by a little easier, with the distractions offered to her, but every night, she’d watch the stars peer through the thick blankets of cloud, desperate to catch a glimpse of her constellation, confirmation of her mate’s life or death.

Finally, either the Veela mothers themselves or some other collection of divine entities answered her prayers with a clear night. Her constellation was spread across the windows, strained and horribly disfigured, but it was unbroken. Fleur was alive, and judging by her stars, Harry was right. She was lost, but she was not gone. Hermione’s half of the stars seemed to reach for Fleur’s, beckoning them, while the Veela’s were stretching in all directions, desperate to find Hermione even if it meant tearing apart.

As much comfort as it brought her, the pain was tenfold. Her Fleur, her dearest beloved, lost and uncertain, more than likely begging for death, searching for an answer for why it hadn’t delivered itself yet. Hermione curled in on herself, trying to leave the memories of Fleur’s body around her unremembered. It was be horribly unfair, and even more painful to think of the Veela’s warmth, her kisses, her love, her strong arms that held her like an anchor. How she would nuzzle her awake, burrowing her nose into her neck until Hermione erupted into a fit a giggles, lost in blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Or how even in Fleur’s queen-sized bed, Hermione would dominate it, pushing the Veela to the very edge and snuggling closer, curled against her, but unwilling to allow the option of space between them. 

She pushed the thoughts away, and for the first time in a very long time, began to earnestly pray. Was there a god? Hermione wasn’t sure. She thought, maybe, given the miracle of love and happiness she’d shared with Fleur. But what kind of god would allow such evils and let that love be ripped to pieces? What kind of god would allow people to die before they’d so much as tasted life or love?

She wasn’t sure in the least, but she would certainly take what she could get. She prayed to every god she knew, begged of every goddess, poured her very soul out to deities that may or may not have the ability to listen or even hear.

But there was one, she knew for sure, would answer her, would at least reassure her of existence. She rose from her bed, got down on her knees, and offered sacrifice. She bled into the air, using her wand to draw strange, abstract shapes until a bountiful supply was hovering before her. She closed the wound, and reached out with every fiber that she was composed of. Wordlessly, she begged for Veela’s attention, the First Mother, the siren that had left her waters and forged a new magic. Within the depths of her mind, the siren answered in a beautiful tintinnabulation. Her voice rang out softly in gorgeous melodies, asking why she’d called for her so desperately.

The lioness, shocked to have found such a response, was silent for several long moments. Veela laughed softly in her head, in gentle encouragement. Finally, Hermione relocated her thoughts.

_Great Mother, I have committed a terrible sin._

Veela sighed, and replied of her knowledge.

_I am trying to keep myself focused, for I do not wish for my loss, my sacrifice, of my mate to be in vain. My every action is made with her in mind. My every desire is to return to her, to apologize, to attempt an explanation, to beg her forgiveness. I do not deserve it, of this I am sure. I call you to offer my blood as an apology to you, your own sacrifices, and the lengths you took to raise a new species, of which I am far too privileged to be a part of. I call you to ask, to implore, to beg of you to protect her. Protect my dearest Fleur…_ Even in thought, her voice broke over Fleur’s name. Tears were streaming down her face, her chest constricting as breathing became a labor. _My reasons for this are horribly unfair, and I acted, as I do now, with her protection as my first priority. I have been burdened with a great task, a task which could leave me dead. If I am to die, and she is to follow, I’d much rather it be in glorious ignorance and chaos than sanity and clarity._

Veela rumbled, much like Fleur used to, in either agreement or distaste, Hermione was unsure.

_Even more so, if she were to follow me, it would break a dying promise. It would put her at horrific danger, even if I had been honest. Our tormentors would have followed her, tortured her, and killed her, and I would follow. Your daughter, Asteria, told me that my mouth could lie, but my heart can’t. I have lied with words, but my heart has been Fleur’s from the moment I saw her, and never once has it faltered. I thought sending her away, like I did my parents, would protect her, for anyone who sides with me and my cause is a target of monstrous consequences._

_I am ashamed of my actions, but not more than I am ashamed by the terms on which I acted. Children will be hunted, preyed upon. Innocence will be slaughtered. I ask of you, please, protect her. Keep her warm and strong. Keep her safe. And, please, please, I beg you; when the time is right, guide her back to me._

Hermione was outright sobbing by now, her body ridged, waiting for either the acceptance of her offering, or the return of it. Finally, another sigh breathed across her consciousness.

_I will accept your sacrifice. I will watch your mate, I will keep her safe, and one day, she will return to you. You will find your lover to be vastly different than when you left her, but break through this new exterior, and you will find her buried underneath. A flower hides for winter, but the seed is safely sleeping in the earth. I know of your trials ahead, and I offer you this. One death can end a war, but the rebels will remain._

Hermione broke down, sobbing into the floor, her tears now a mix of gratitude and despair. She thanked Veela over and over again, singing her praises and promising on her blood that she would do all that she could. The Mother left her with peace in her heart, and for the first time in weeks, she slept through the night.

When she woke, she was the first to arrive in the kitchen. She cooked breakfast, pleased when Harry and Ron joined them and reveled in the shock on their faces upon seeing her. After they’d eaten, Harry thanked God that she hadn’t raced upstairs to retch as she’d been so prone do so over the last several weeks, for depression and anxiety left her stomach in knots. Instead, she busied herself with any possible task available to keep the nausea in the background of her conscious, most of which consisted of translating Beedle.

In the early hours of the evening, Kreacher returned with a startled and bewildered Mundungus Fletcher. Hermione rounded on him the moment she saw him, sparing no jump or start to the loud _crack_ that announced Kreacher’s return. Her wand was draw with quick, ready fingers, and pressed menacingly to his throat. The Veela was closer to the surface that she had been in weeks, and thrashed in her blood as she stared the defenseless wizard down.

“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master,” the elf croaked. “Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered him in the end.”

“You’ve done very well, Kreacher, thank you.” Harry said, nodding to the elf. Kreacher bowed low.

“We’ve got a few questions for you.” He said as he looked to Mundungus, his wand drawn.

“I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, an’ that was bleedin’ You-Know-Who come flying at me, anyone woulda got outta there, I said all along I didn’t wanna do it—”

“For your information, no one else Disapparated.” Hermione growled, her voice low and drawling.

“Well, you’re a bunch of bleedin’ ‘eroes then, aren’t you, but I never pretended I was up for killing meself—”

“We’re not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye,” Harry said softly, moving closer. “We already knew you were an unreliable bit of shit.”

“Well then, why the ‘ell am I being ‘unted down by ‘ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I ain’t got none of ‘em left, or you could ‘ave ‘em—”

“It’s not about the goblets, either, but you’re getting warmer. Shut up and listen. When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable,” Mundungus cut him off.

“Sirius never cared about—”

There was a great sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

“Call ‘im off, call ‘im off, ‘e should be locked up!”

“Kreacher, no!” Harry shouted.

The little elf’s arms trembled under the weight of the pan, still held aloft. “Perhaps one more, Master Harry, for luck?”

Ron laughed.

“We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading, you can do the honors.”

“Thank you very much, Master,” the elf returned with a low bow before he took several paces back, his eyes locked on Mundungus. Hermione gripped him by his shirt collar and lifted him clear off the floor before she shoved him into a chair at his back, her wand at his neck.

“When you stripped this house of all its valuables, you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there. What did you do with it?”

“Why?” Mundungus asked in a high-pitch voice. “Is it valuable?”

“You’ve still got it!” Ron cried.

“No, he hasn’t,” Harry said softly. “He’s wondering if he should have asked more for it.”

“More?” said Mundungus. “That wouldn’t have been effing difficult… bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me and asks if I’ve got a license for trading magical artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky.”

“Who was this woman?” Hermione demanded.

“I dunno, some Ministry hag.” He sat in contemplation, his brow furrowed. “Little woman. Bow on top of ‘er head.” He frowned then added, “Looked like a toad.”

Harry straightened his back and glanced between Hermione and Ron. Ire and frustration was written across their faces. With a glance at Kreacher, Harry nodded, and the elf delivered another blow to Mundungus before he returned his unconscious body to the stinking hole he’d come from.


	17. By A Route Obscure And Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, loves! I hope you enjoy this one. A bit longer than the last I daresay, and slightly less painful, at least I hope. Only a little Fleur action this time, but we'll be seeing more of her shortly. In any case, I hope you all had a good week and have a wonderful weekend. Make good decisions, lovelies.   
> Much love,   
> RC   
> Chapter title from Edgar's 'Dream-Land'

 

When the Veela woke, it was to rain. It pelted upon her bare back like flecks of ice. It hit the leaves that made up her bed, the cadence booming through the forest in a loud, impending march. Her limbs felt stiff and hard, reluctant to move after such a long sleep; her lungs burned in her chest as she drew breath, though it took her a while to remember how. She struggled to her feet. Her eyes were far less heavy now, though they felt dry and gritty.

The rain seeped into her hair; she shivered when it found her scalp. She looked down at her arms where they were covered in scratches and bites. The insect bites itched irritably but had healed sometime during her sleep. She lifted a hand to her head, wincing as she found a bruised lump there. The side upon which she’d lain was horribly bruised and discolored as well, as if amongst stages of livor mortis.

She looked around curiously. She had no idea where she was or how she got there. In thought, she licked her lips, finding the movement painful. Saving thinking for later, she found a large leaf and drank the rainwater that had gathered upon it thirstily. When that source had exhausted, she found another and repeated the process until she’d taken her fill.

Then she sought shelter and found it beneath two hemlocks growing close together. She climbed the larger of the two and settled on a branch that provided fair cover from the storm, one that curved and connected to the trunk gracefully enough to sleep upon. Her thoughts returned to her. Her body’s wounds had been cleaned by the rain, and now were healing quite fast, faster than they had before, in fact, though she had no recollection of having ever healed before.

Again, she wondered how she’d gotten there. She wondered who she was. She wondered _what_ she was. Without any answer from a slumbering or nonexistent subconscious, she then decided she’d stay the night in the tall hemlock and leave thought behind. Boredom struck her, as she’d been sleeping for an unmeasured amount of time and certainly had no desire to return to slumber. Her stomach growled irritably, unsatisfied with its meal of rainwater. Peering into the darkening trees, she saw no movement, other than the cascading rain and flicker of the foliage as water fell and rolled off them. She snatched some leaves from her branch and chewed them with distain, the flavor bitter and unappetizing.

She tried a nut she found along the same branch, finding the same displeasure in the taste. The blonde reluctantly settled in her spot, peering round the forest again. A tall, lean doe sauntered out the trees, her ears pinned back in annoyance against the rain. She paused at a nearby tree, sniffing the air before nosing at the ground. The blonde’s eyes narrowed with hunger and her stomach clenched in apprehension. No memory surfaced of ever having done this before, but instinct reassured her to follow. Her lip curled over her teeth, revealing cruel, sharp teeth, two canines on either side of her jaw. A growl built in her chest, lowly rumbling out. The doe’s keen ears twitched to the sound, searching to locate the source.

The Veela’s tongue ran over her teeth, her pupils dilated. She leapt from her branch, crashing on top of the doe with a loud scream. A hard kick landed in her chest and she slumped on the ground. The doe galloped into the wood, tail high in the air. The Veela picked herself up again, shook off the leaves, and followed. She kept her body close to the ground, following the hoof prints as she went. They were lost after she’d tracked them for a spell, but had led her to an enticing bush of berries. The rain fell harder now, but the Veela seemed hardly aware as she feasted on the sweet red fruit till she’d had her fill. The sky had darkened now, and there was no chance that she could return to her hemlock by racing the sun’s decent.

So, she continued on, found a creek and drank thirstily, and found a handsome oak suitable for the night, similar in stature to her previous hemlock. She climbed, made a small, cozy nest near the trunk by bowing branches together and plucking leaves for bedding, and settled for the night. Strange things twinkled in the dark mass above her, thousands of bright, shining suns. She pondered these absently, wondering why they seemed so close, and yet she was unable to capture them.

Some short time later, a soft, whimpering sound made its way to her ear. She sat up, glanced around, and saw a small form huddled near the base of her tree. The Veela, intrigued and curious, climbed down and peered over a bough. A small, shivering pup huddled beneath the cover the oak provided, whimpering occasionally. The blonde picked her way down, and without startling the wolf, approached slowly. Blue eyes met her own, and the weak mantle of fur bristled. The Veela kept low to the ground, her belly nearly pressed against the wet earth. Carefully, she held her hand out for the pup to sniff. She noticed how the small the wolf was, nowhere near an adult yet, and barely old enough to hunt small game learned in play. It took several minutes of staring and consideration, but finally, the black bundle of fur breathed in the Veela’s scent, and accepted her as non-human, and non-threatening. The blonde turned her hand over so her palm was face-up. The pup licked her hand once and scurried to her, seeking warmth. The Veela lifted the bundle and ascended into the tree again, holding the wolf close to her chest. Once the two had settled in the nest, and the pup dried, they fell asleep listening to the cadence of the rain and the boom of thunder, occasionally wincing as the sky fractured with veins of lightening. The small wolf nuzzled her way against the Veela, seeking out warmth and protection. She sighed in content and then was still.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The inhabitants of number twelve were well-aware of the Death Eater patrols that seemed to have nothing better to do than sit outside and stare at the spaces between numbers eleven and thirteen. Even with their presence, Hermione and Harry watched the comings and goings of the Ministry of Magic for days, recording who came in and dressed in what and during which time. Harry returned, after thwarting the current watchers of any hope of interesting activity, and calmly countered the shadowy figure of Dumbledore that rose up from the rug upon entrance.

“I’ve got news, and you won’t like it,” he called into the kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black. The kitchen was almost unrecognizable, for Kreacher had taken his token of Regulus’s locket with the utmost of gratitude. The elf now wore a clean, fluffy towel, and had returned the kitchen to a state of cleanliness Harry hadn’t seen since he’d left Privet Drive. The pots and pans and kettles gleamed copper, the floors so meticulously scrubbed, one could eat off it, and the table and chairs polished to shine.

“Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner,” the elf croaked, as he took the Invisibility Cloak from harry and hung it on a peg beside the door. 

“What’s happened?” Ron asked, glancing up at Harry. He’d been working with Hermione for the better part of the morning, hunched over hand-drawn maps and scribbled notes. Harry said nothing, and pushed the newspaper to them. Hermione snatched it up first, and read it aloud as a familiar, hook-nosed face looked up from the front page beneath the headline:

**_Severus Snape Confirmed as Hogwarts Headmaster_ **

“No!” Ron exclaimed, rushing to look over Hermione’s shoulder.

The lioness shrugged him off and forced him back into his seat before she continued reading. _“‘Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor._

_“ ‘I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values—’_ Like committing murder and cutting off people’s ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore’s off—son of a bitch!” she shrieked, and leaped away from the table. Ron and Harry looked after her with strange expressions, but she gave no voice to their questions. Instead, she ran upstairs, found the empty portrait frame and canvas, and returned to the kitchen.

“What was all that about?” Ron asked, eyeing her.

“I remembered Phineas Nigellus.” She said simply.

“Sorry?”

“He’s an ex-headmaster of Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “He has two portraits he can travel by, one in Dumbledore’s office, and one here.”

“All Snape had to do was send him here,” Hermione picked up as she lifted her beaded bag. “And then, Snape would know who’s in the house. But—” she paused as she began stuffing the portrait into her handbag. “—now all he’ll see is the inside.” She huffed as the painting finally fell through into what might as well be a black hole of a bag.

“Good thinking!” Ron exclaimed, amazed as the bag closed easily without a hint of the numerous items inside.

“Thank you,” she returned, and repeated herself as Kreacher ladled out soup for her. “So, Harry, what else happened today?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad, though, Ron. He looks fine.”

Ron nodded appreciatively. Even though they hadn’t dared to risk communicating, it was still reassuring to have at least a report of family, no matter how harried or anxious they looked.

“Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work,” Ron piped. “That’s why we haven’t seen Umbridge, she’d never walk, she’d think she’s too important.”

“And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?”

“Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance,”

“How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?” the lioness asked, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

“Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy robes,”

“You never told us that!” she exclaimed, dropping her spoon as she pulled a sheaf of notes towards her and started scribbling.

“Well, does it really matter?”

“Yes! Everything matters! The Ministry of Magic is the most dangerous place we could possibly go, and we’re planning an infiltration mission! It’s already damn near suicide, leaving out any information could set us apart and raise an alarm.”

“I think we should go tomorrow.” Harry said softly.

“Harry, really?” Ron asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione drew a breath _._ “You’re sure?”

The lion nodded once.

“All right. Tomorrow.”

Ron glanced between the two. “Say we do go tomorrow… I think it should just be me and Harry.”

The lioness turned to him slowly, her eyes narrow. “What the bloody hell makes you think I’m going to sit here and play house all day while the two of you are risking far more than your necks?!”

“You’re on the list of Muggle-borns that didn’t show up for registration—”

“You speak as though you expect me to just walk into the fucking Ministry wearing my own bloody skin!” she said, rising up from her seat.

Harry’s hand suddenly flew to his forehead, and even locked in her stare-down with Ron, Hermione did not fail to notice. A moment afterwards, he practically ran upstairs, muttering about the bathroom. It wasn’t two minutes later until he began screaming.

The lioness flew up the stairs, taking them three at a time as her stride widened, and very nearly broke the door down before Harry unbolted it. Hermione fell forwards into the room, and knelt down beside Harry, utter concern written across her features.

“What did you see?”

“Noth—”

“Harry, please, don’t insult my intelligence.” She said gruffly.

“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now, he’s probably killed her whole family. And he didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again and they were just _there…”_

“You were supposed to be shutting him out.”

“I _can’t,_ Hermione!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “I _can’t._ And if I can’t shut him out, then I’m going to use this, this—connection to my advantage as best as I can! He wants Gregorvitch.”

“Who?” Ron asked from the doorway.

“He’s a foreign wandmaker—he made Krum’s and Krum reckons he’s brilliant. Said so before the Triwizard.”

“But according to you,” Ron continued. “You-Know-Who’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”

“Maybe he agrees with Krum,” Hermione offered. “Or, maybe he thinks Gregorvitch will be able to explain why Malfoy’s wand didn’t have any effect on yours.”

“Or why it reacted the way it did.”

He barely missed Hermione’s exasperated sigh, but the lioness did not bring up the past argument.

“Even so,” Hermione continued. “Dumbledore wouldn’t want you to keep your mind open to him. He wouldn’t want you to take advantage of it.”

“Forget Dumbledore.” Harry growled. “I can’t stop this. More than that, it’s my mind and if I so choose, I will practice Occlumency, but until I choose, I’ll take advantage of this connection.”

Hermione rumbled softly in her chest, but let the issue drop.

“Well, I for one think we should go over the plan if we’re busting into the bloody Ministry tomorrow,” Ron offered.

The idea was met with a great consensus, and for hours, the three poured over their notes, wrote out plans, crossed them out, proposed others, and memorized courses of action. When Hermione finally crawled beneath her blankets, the night was clear beyond her window. Fleur’s stars were still scattered, lost, but ever so slightly corrected. The promise Veela had made to her reverberated through her consciousness, and eased her into sleep as she clutched, for the first time since she’d returned to number twelve, a powder-blue Beauxbaton t-shirt beneath her cheek.

 

When morning broke, Hermione was the first to rise, and sat in the sitting room with Beedle upon her lap and a runes textbook on the cushion beside her. At seven, she glanced out the window and studied the Death Eaters patrolling the house. They looked wan, tired and bored, their stare of loathing was almost intense enough to burn down the building itself. When seven-thirty rolled around, she abandoned her post and went to the kitchen, digging through her bag for the items they’d most likely be using very shortly. Ron and Harry joined her just moments after, and thanked Kreacher as he served them hot rolls and coffee. They gulped their breakfast down and hurried upstairs while Kreacher bowed them out and promised to have a steak-and-kidney pie waiting for them upon return.

“Bless him,” Ron murmured fondly. “And to think I used to fantasize about cutting his head off and mounting it on a wall.”

They made their way onto the front step with utmost caution and Hermione in the lead, for she’d already thoroughly scoped out the Death Eater patrol. She Disapparated with Ron first, then returned for Harry. They found themselves in a tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was completely deserted, save for a few large bins, and the time was nearing eight o’clock. A mix of anxiety and excitement rolled over the three as time ticked by, wordlessly reciting plans in their heads. Hermione turned and flicked her wand at a padlocked door, which opened obediently. The lioness carefully pulled it closed again, in the façade of being locked, and returned under the Cloak in wait. Not five minutes later, a little _pop_ announced the arrival of a little Ministry witch with flyaway grey hair. Hermione’s Stunning spell hit her squarely in the chest without so much as a word. Together, they carried the little witch through the door and into an empty theatre, and down to a dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione deftly plucked a few hairs from her head and added them to the muddy flask of Polyjuice Potion. The dark color of the substance faded away and took on a pleasant heliotrope, and the lioness drank it down at once while Ron scoured their victim’s pockets.

“She’s Mafalda Hopkirk. An assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office,” Ron reported, reading an identification card. “You’d better take this, and here are the tokens.” She stowed them away in her pockets and Harry glanced at his watch.

“We’re running late. Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any minute.”

They left Mafalda in the theatre, and returned outside where Harry and Ron donned the Cloak again, but Hermione stayed out in the open. Seconds later, another _pop_ sounded and a ferrety-looking wizard appeared.

“Oh, hello, Malfalda.”

“Hello!” Hermione returned cheerily, easily falling into stealth mode. “How are you today?”

“Not so good, actually,” replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly downcast.

She very nearly reached out to him in comfort, but managed to refrain. “I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather. Here, have a sweet.” She said instead, offering him a pastille.

“Eh? Oh, no thanks—”

“I insist, please. Always makes me feel a little better.”

Reluctantly, the little wizard took one. The moment it touched his tongue, he began vomiting so hard, he did not realize that Hermione had pulled several hairs free from his head.

“Oh dear! Perhaps you’d better take the day off!”

“No—no!” he choked out, stumbling forward. “I must—today—must go!”

“But that’s just silly! You can’t go into work in this state—I think you ought to go to St. Mungo’s and get them to sort you out!”

The words fell to deaf ears as the wizard crawled forward on all fours, desperate to get to the Ministry.

“You simply can’t go into work like this!”

Still, he fought her, his stomach clenching violently although it had nothing left to expel. His fingers dug into the pavement beneath them, pulling him forward if only a small measure at a time. Any progress was welcomed as he began to bleed, the rough surface wearing away at his skin. And still, the vomiting showed no sign of leaving him.

Finally, with acid in his throat, all over his front and a trail behind him, the man nodded, and used Hermione’s body to climb into a standing position where he turned and Disapparated, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hand.

As soon as he was gone, Hermione’s face folded in disgust as she sidestepped puddles of sick, her robes hitched up. “I honestly think Stunning him would have been a better way to go.”

“But a pile of unconscious bodies is less obvious?” Harry said from beneath the Cloak, while Ron took the Polyjuice Potion.

“No one would have found them.” Hermione returned. “But it’s over, so let’s keep moving.”

“Weird he wasn’t wearing them today, wasn’t it, seeing as how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I’m Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back. Ready?”

Hermione nodded, and within ten minutes, returned with hairs for Harry. “You’ll need bigger robes, he was quite tall,” she murmured, enlarging the robes Kreacher had laundered for them. Once the transformation was made, he towered over the other two, and unaccustomed to having so much body, he spent a few minutes learning how to move properly and with some form of finesse.

“Take one of Mafalda’s tokens,” Hermione whispered, pressing one into his hand. “Let’s go, it’s nearly nine.”

They stepped out of the alleyway together, and filed into lines of witches and wizards, apparently moving to public toilets. Inevitably, they separated, and Hermione reigned in her anxiety. From her right, she heard someone chatting with Ron.

“Morning, Reg! Blooming pain in the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry Potter?”

Ron forced a chuckle, and slid a coin into a slot.

Hermione returned her attention to the witch in front of her, and follower her lead. Once inside the cubicle, she heard flushing from both sides, and peered under the gap at the bottom just in time to see a pair of booted feet step up into the toilet before another flush followed. She frowned, and once again followed. Once her feet touched the water, something she was quite dreading, she found her robes and boots remained quite dry and clean. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the chain to her right, and fell through a short chute, and emerged from a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic. She quickly stepped away from the fireplace and looked around.

This was not the Atrium she remembered. It was darker, almost sinister, and where before there had been a golden fountain, a massive statue of black stone dominated the hall. A witch and a wizard sat upon ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling from the fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT. A peculiar shape stole her attention, and with a closer look made her blood run cold. The thrones were more intricately carved than she’d originally thought. Bodies built the whole structure, men, women and children, all pressed together to support the regal forms of the witch and wizard.

“Muggles,” she whispered. “In their rightful place…”

The tall, strange form of Harry loomed over her, and wordlessly, she nodded. Together, as they did so long ago, they crossed the Atrium. She tried, oh how she tried, not to remember the last time she was here but to no avail. She remembered the brilliant streak of light that had carried a horrible tormentor to the southern-most wall, remembered how fierce a battle Fleur had fought. She remembered the flash of fangs, the low drone of a growl, the echoing snarl, the rippling, coiled muscles beneath her hands as they were forced into that corner, just to her left, and protected by the golden centaur. She remembered the pallid, snakelike face, from which the Veela had not taken a _single_ step away. She remembered the fearlessness etched into every movement as Fleur looked Voldemort in the eye, slitted red boring into angry, untamed, dauntless cobalt.

She shook off the memories she didn’t want to recall, refocused herself on the task at hand. They joined a stream of witches and wizards moving towards golden gates at the end of the hall, scouting the area as subtly as possible, but there was no sign of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said, “Cattermole!”

They looked around, and Harry’s stomach dropped. One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed Dumbledore’s death was striding towards them. The Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes downcast. Fear rolled off their bodies, pungent and thick in Hermione’s senses. The man’s brutish features were somehow at odds with the magnificent, sweeping robes, embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called sycophantically, “Morning, Yaxley!” and went ignored by the wizard.

“I requested someone from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It’s still raining in there.”

Ron looked around, as though hoping someone else would intervene. No one spoke.

“Raining… in your office? That’s—that’s not good, it is?” he gave a breathless, nervous laugh.

“You think it’s funny, Cattermole, do you?”

“No, no, of course—”  

“You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I’m quite surprised you’re not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Be sure and marry a pureblood next time.”

The color drained from Hermione’s face. That’s why the little wizard was so insistent to go to work; he wanted to sit with his wife, his dearest, and tell her it would be okay, that they and their children would be perfectly all right. To hold her and kiss her and reassure her. To wipe the tears from her cheeks and to chase her fears away.

“I—I—” Ron stammered.

“But if _my_ wife were accused of being a Mudblood—not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth—” the color rushed back into the lioness’s face and it took every ounce of willpower and divine intervention to keep her from ripping the man apart. “—and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement need a job doing, I would make it my first priority to do the job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” whispered Ron.

“Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife’s Blood Status will be in even graver doubt that it is now.”

The golden grille before them clattered open. With an unpleasant nod to Harry, who, apparently, was supposed to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole, Yaxley swept away towards another lift.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry entered theirs, but nobody followed them as if they were infectious. The grilles slid shut with a clang and the lift began to move upwards.

“What am I going to do?” Ron asked at once, looking stricken. “If I don’t turn up, my wife—I mean, Cattermole’s wife—”

“We’ll come with you, we should stick together—” Harry started.

“That’s mental, we haven’t got much time. You two find Umbridge, I’ll go sort out Yaxley’s office—but how do I stop it raining?”

“Try Finite Incantatem,” Hermione supplied at once. “That should stop the rain if it’s a curse or hex; if it doesn’t, something’s wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be more difficult to fix so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings—”

“Say that again, slowly,” said Ron, desperately searching his pockets for a quill. Before he could, a disembodied voice sounded.

“Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau.”

The grilles slid apart, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

“Morning, Albert,” said a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Harry. Hermione missed the exchange as she whispered instructions hurriedly to Ron before the lift paused again at level two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services.

 Hermione gave Ron a little push and sent him on his way, and the other two wizards followed him out. The grilles closed again, and soon announced level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff. When the doors opened, Hermione stifled a growl. Four people stood before them, two deep in conversation, a long-haired wizard in magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair, clutching a clipboard to her chest. Her scent burned in Hermione’s nostrils, rancid and sickly.

“Ah, Mafalda!” said Umbridge upon seeing the lioness. “Travers sent you, did he?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione returned, her voice unwavering, though her heart was beating unsteadily.

“Good, you’ll do perfectly well.” Umbridge turned to the wizard in black and gold. “That’s that problem solved, Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway.” She consulted her clipboard. “Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut… even here, in the heart of the Ministry!” she stepped into the lift beside Hermione, the other two wizards following her. Hermione did her best to restrain from pressing herself against the wall of the lift in hope to get a fresh breath of air. “We’ll go straight down, Mafalda, you’ll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, aren’t you getting out?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry returned in his unnaturally gravelly voice. He spared a glance at Hermione before he shuffled down the corridor and out of sight.

“Right this way, Mafalda,” Umbridge said when the lift paused for the final time. They stepped into a corridor that was quite different than the ones above. This one dark, narrow, and stank of anxiety and fear. Umbridge murmured a spell, and a silvery long-haired cat leaped into existence. It sauntered down the hallway, effortlessly parting the shadows and warming the narrow hall, and that’s when Hermione saw the faceless, hooded creatures looming in the darkness. Dementors watched them pass, glowering at the feline as it passed them.

Umbridge hummed happily as she walked, and tasked Hermione with various things to do while she set up her own post. The lioness took her time in completing them, desperate for some idea to strike her or some sign from Harry. Nothing came, and soon she found herself sitting beside Umbridge, making small talk with her, until it was time to begin.

Hermione was powerless to what happened next. She sat, anger roaring and boiling in her stomach, heart, soul and blood, but she could not fight Umbridge or her tyranny. She took notes, and organized papers as the Senior Undersecretary needed, choking her disgust down every time some poor soul before them shouted “I’m a half-blood! A half-blood, I swear! Look up my mother, my father, I promise you!”

These pleas were met with indifference and cold dismissal. When Umbridge called Mary Cattermole, the lioness very nearly lost all hold on her composure. _You’re doing this for… damn it, weakling, at least think her name! Fl… Fleur. You’re doing this for… Fleur._

Steel joined the blood in her veins, and she sat up straighter. When the witch shuffled forward, trembling from head to toe, crying softly into her hand, a thick, strange scent entered with her. It was incredibly masculine, unlike anything she’d ever smelled before, but she could definitely detect Harry’s aftershave. She lifted her chin, and took as subtle a breath as she could. Yes, Harry was here, but apparently either silenced himself or learned how to move the great body of Albert Runcorn.

“Sit down,” Umbridge instructed Mrs. Cattermole, who obeyed without hesitation, though she jumped visibly when cuffs secured her to the chair upon which she sat. “You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?”

Hermione’s heart broke in her chest. This woman shared her mother’s name! Her mother who was in Australia with no hint or memory of ever having a daughter… _This is not the time to go to pieces!_ She berated herself. _Stay focused, or get killed._

Mrs. Cattermole gave a shaky nod.

“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”

“I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!”

Umbridge ignored her. “Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?”

She sobbed harder. “They’re frightened, they think I might not come home—”

“Spare us,” spat Yaxley. “The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.

The steel in Hermione’s veins burned hotly, heat flushing through her body. She clenched her teeth and bit her tongue, pinched her own skin, anything to keep quiet. Umbridge noticed the temperature change.

“Is everything all right, Mafalda?”

“Menopause,” Hermione supplied instantly. “Hot flashes. Ignore me, please.” Umbridge nodded and looked back at her victim. Mrs. Cattermole had begun to cry even louder, fear plainly written across her face.

The strange, masculine scent Hermione had detected before swelled suddenly, and a gravelly voice whispered near her ear.  

“I’m right behind you.”

She nodded subtly, and refocused her attention on Umbridge.

“A wand was taken from you upon arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,” Umbridge said. “Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn hair core. Do you recognize this description?”

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her face with her sleeve.

“Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?”

“T-took?” sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. “I didn’t t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It—it _chose_ me.”

Umbridge laughed softly in a girlish tone that made Hermione long to tear her apart. She leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void: the locket. For a moment, Hermione forgot her ire, and stared mesmerized at the jewel.

“No,” Umbridge continued. “No, I don’t think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here—Mafalda, pass them to me.”

Hermione fumbled for a moment before she located the correct sheaf. “That’s—that’s really pretty, Dolores,” she murmured, pointing at the locket.

“What?” snapped Umbridge, glancing down. “Oh yes—an old family heirloom,” she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. “The _S_ stands for Selwyn… I am related to the Selwyns… Indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related… A pity,” she said, louder this time as she flicked through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire. “That the same cannot be said for you. _‘Parents’ professions: greengrocers.’”_

Hermione felt the very moment pass when Harry lost his sense of restraint. She knew, without a doubt, that the source of this break was Umbridge’s use of the locket to bolster her own pure-blood credentials. She barely managed to duck out of the way when he bellowed “ _Stupefy!”_ A streak of red hit Umbridge and she slumped over the banister. The silver cat vanished.

Hermione responded readily and drew her wand, Stunning the other two wizards before they could draw their own weapons. The sounds of screaming turned her attention like a riptide. Mrs. Cattermole, without the feline Patronus, was left was no defense, and was forced to watch as the dementors swooped towards her.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_ she cried, and for the first time since she’d left her dearest, the shared silver lioness leaped, roaring, from the tip of her wand. Harry threw the Cloak from his body and rushed to Mrs. Cattermole, and set to undoing the chains at her wrists with utter failure.

“You?” she whispered. “Reg said you were the one who submitted my name for questioning…”

“Did I?” Harry asked, fumbling with the cuffs. “I’ve had a change of heart then. Hermione, damn it, I can’t get these chains off!”

“Hold on, I’m getting the Horcrux! If she wakes up and the locket’s gone— _Geminio!_ That should fool her.” She took the locket and stowed it inside her pocket before she rushed to Harry’s side. _“Relashio!”_ the cuffs and chains fell away. She helped Mrs. Cattermole to her feet, looking incredibly apologetic. “You’re leaving with us. Go home, grab your children, disguise yourselves, and get the hell out. Go to Gringotts and ask for a word with Bill Weasley. Tell him what’s going on, and he’ll get you out of the country. It’s not going to get any better, you understand?”

Mrs. Cattermole nodded shakily while Harry looked confused. “Gringotts?”

“That’s what they were working on. Clearing tunnels to Germany and France. I wasn’t supposed to find out…”

He nodded and shook his head as if to clear it. “Right, now we have to get out of here.” He called his Patronus, and together, the lioness and the stag, approached the door.

“Wait, wait,” Mrs. Cattermole said, digging her heels in. “Hermione? Hermione Granger?” The lioness pulled at her hand.

“Come on, we don’t have much time!”

“Then…” she looked at Harry. “Impossible…” She shook her head and followed after a moment. When the stag and the lioness glided out of the dungeon, there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. The dementors were falling back on either side of them, glaring at the Patronuses.

“It’s been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families,” Harry said loudly, addressing the waiting Muggle-borns. “Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s the—er—new official position. Now, if you’ll just follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave the Atrium.”

They managed to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, a lioness alongside it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted attention. He had just reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt in front of them.

“Reg!” screamed Mrs. Cattermole, throwing herself into Ron’s arms. “Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge, and Yaxley, he’s told me to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I really do, let’s hurry home and fetch the children and—why are you so wet?”

“Water,” Ron muttered, disengaging himself. “Harry, they know intruders are inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door, I reckon we’ve got five minutes if that. If we’re trapped here—”

“Then we need to move faster.” Hermione growled, the silver lioness rumbling beside her. “Who has wands?”

About half of them raised their hands.

“Everyone without a wand,” Harry picked up. “Attach yourselves to someone who does. We’ll need to move fast. Come on.”

They squashed themselves into the lift, and Hermione’s lioness and Harry’s stag stood sentinel before the golden grilles as the shut and the lifts began to rise.

“Level eight, Atrium,” the disembodied voice said upon reaching the level.

At once, anxiety swept through Hermione’s stomach and rolled off Harry. The Atrium was filled with people, moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

“STOP!” Harry thundered in Runcorn’s deep bass, making the Atrium echo with the command. The wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. “Follow me,” he whispered to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who move forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.

“What’s up, Albert?” said a balding wizard, looking very nervous.

“This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,” Harry said with as much authority as he could muster.

The group of wizards looked between one another.

“We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone—”

_“Are you contradicting me?”_ Harry blustered. “Would you like me to have your family tree examined like I had Dirk Cresswell?”

“Sorry!” gasped the balding wizard, backing away. “I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought… I thought they were in for questioning and…”

“Their blood is pure,” Harry returned, his deep voice echoing impressively through the hall. “Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and vanished in pairs. The Ministry wizards hung back, some looking confused, other scared and resentful. Then:

“Mary!”

Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting, but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.

“R-Reg?”

She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly. The balding wizard gaped, turning his head ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.

“Hey—what’s going on? What is this?”

“Seal the exit! SEAL IT!”

Yaxley had burst out of another lift an was running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding man lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.

The baling wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, under the cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the wizard he’d hit, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed “My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?”

Yaxley’s head turned, an inkling of the truth drawn on the brutish face. Hermione sent a hex to him that knocked him off his feet and grabbed Reg, Ron, and Harry, forcing them into the fireplace.

“Go home, and get out of the country, now!” she commanded in the cubicle to Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole. “That’s your real husband, now go!” they scurried off, clinging to one another. The three bolted from the cubicle, and heard Yaxley cursing behind them.

“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled, gripping Hermione’s hand. He turned on the spot, taking the two of them with him, but something was wrong. Hermione’s hand seem to be sliding out of his grip. The serpent door-knocker of number twelve came into view, and the weight he felt lightened. A bright purple flash lit up the darkness of his vison, and Hermione tightened her hold like a vice. All he saw was Yaxley standing on the doorstep of number twelve before darkness invaded again, and the house vanished from sight.


	18. Haunted By Ill Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from 'Dream-Land'

Hermione landed hard on the ground. Her vision was reduced to blurs of gold and green as she stared above her. She was unsure as to if she’d lost consciousness, or when it returned, but a pounding inside her skull made itself known. She groaned and rolled over, the earth hard and crunchy beneath her. Leaves and grass brushed over her cheek, and a wet, sticky substance fastened bits to her skin. She opened her eyes, willing them to focus, and saw Ron lying an arm’s length away from her, ghastly pale and covered in blood.

The lioness lurched to her feet, screaming for Harry. Blood rushed to her head, stealing her balance as she stumbled forward and fell to Ron’s side, pressing her hand to the gaping wound at his bicep. Blood gathered around her hand, weeping to the ground as Harry regained his bearings, asking what could be done.

“Hermione, what happened to him?”

“Splinched! In my bag, there’s a bottle of dittany! Get it, please!”

Harry heeded her, and nearly fell headfirst into the beaded bag. Unsure of what else to do, he sent a summoning charm to the depths, and the desired bottle zoomed out.

“Just a few drops on the wound, please,” she asked, removing her hands long enough to draw her wand and began working to restore the lost blood. The dittany smoked slightly as it came into contact with the wound, and evaporated away without a trace. The new skin was taunt and bright, almost angry as it glared up at them. With a few more incantations, Hermione sighed, and sat back. Some color had returned to his face, but his eyes, however, had yet to reappear.

“Hermione, what happened?” Harry asked quietly, looking around the glade. “Why aren’t we back at number twelve?”

The lioness sighed and shook her head. “Yaxley grabbed me. He was too heavy to throw off in the middle of Apparation, and when he saw the doorway, his grip slackened. He’s probably in there now, with dozens of Ministry officials and Death Eaters. We can’t go back there. When Dumbledore died, we were made Secret-Keepers, and, well, we’ve given him the secret, haven’t we?” she said miserably.

Harry hung his head. Of course, she was right. She was always right. Logic hung in her words as unquestionable as the sun the sky above them. They could not return to number twelve and expect to emerge alive. For all his worth, he hoped Kreacher’s loyalty would prove strong, he hoped that Regulus’s locket would hang heavily upon his chest, and he would not tell the Ministry anything.

“What do we do?” he asked quietly, looking up at her.

The lioness appraised Ron before she answered. “I don’t want to move him too far. He’ll feel nauseated, and using any more magic on him isn’t a good idea. The only wise choice to make is to set up camp and build concealment and protective charms.”

Harry nodded, glad to have something to do, and began to root through her beaded bag while Hermione paced around the little clearing, murmuring incantations as she did. When she’d finished her repertoire, she sucked in a deep breath, and even though it felt horribly unfair as guilt coiled in the pit of her stomach, she used Veela magic. The Veela wards were strong and ancient, and sapped her of energy, but they shone out proudly, warning even animals away.

Panting slightly, she looked over her shoulder at Harry, who was struggling with the tent. Another flick of her wand, and it assembled itself in midair before it settled neatly, breathing out a sigh of dust. Together, the two conscious Gryffindors moved the third inside, and set him carefully on a bottom bunk. Somewhat regaining consciousness, Ron stammered and half-coherently asked questions, his skin a delicate shade of green. Harry was left to tend to him, while Hermione set the kettle to boil, and returned with hot cups for each of them. The warm drink was a magnificent comfort, and settled Ron’s stomach to a degree. He was finally able to sit up, and asked where they were.

“The woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup,” she answered softly. “First place I thought of.”

“Any enchantments?”

“As much as I could do. At the very least, we should know they’re coming, I can’t guarantee it would keep out Vol—”

“Don’t say the name!” Ron cut across her.

The lioness traded a glance with Harry.

“I’m sorry, but it feels like a—a jinx or something.” He scratched at his head. “Can’t we call him You-Know-Who, or something?”

Hermione frowned. “That would be something he’d do,” she murmured. “Jinx a name. They know few people would call him by that name, they know we do. It is very possible that they would take such precaution and jinx it, put a Trace on it.”

“So we’re agreed, then?” Ron asked, anxiously looking between the other two. “He’s You-Know-Who, then?”

“What if they jinx that one too?” Harry interjected.

Hermione shook her head. “Far too many people address him as such. His Death Eaters may be great in number, but there are far more civilians, who will continue to say ‘You-Know-Who.’ He wouldn’t want them running off to every utterance of that, it’s used far too often.”

“So we’re safe with You-Know-Who, then?” asked Ron, desperate for a straight answer to the question.

“Fine. You-Know-Who then,” Harry sighed.

Ron looked relieved, and a bit of color returned to his face. “Did you get it?”

Harry nodded to Hermione. With a scowl, she dug through her robes, and pulled out the heavy locket. It was as large as a chicken’s egg, an ornate letter  _S_ , inlaid with small green stones glinted dully in the filtered light. The emerald was dark and ancient, no scratch betrayed any hint of damage. The three passed it around, surprised by the cold sting of the gold. It never took any heat from their bodies, nor even from Hermione’s radiating warmth within her robes.

“There isn’t any chance someone’s destroyed it since Kreacher’s had it?” Ron asked hopefully, turning the locket over in his hands. “I mean, are we sure it’s still a Horcrux?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione murmured. “Remember what that book said? From Dumbledore’s office?” she was met with blank stares.  _“Secrets of the Darkest Art?_ The book Vol—Riddle read and asked Slughorn about? It said that the piece of soul within the Horcrux must be brought out of its concealment and destroyed. We’ll have to open the locket first, and Kreacher said he’d tried everything and nothing had worked.”

Harry stared off in silent contemplation. “Well, the diary was a Horcrux,” he finally said. “It was all mangled and torn after I stabbed it with the basilisk fang.”

Ron snorted. “Great to know, since we have tons of fangs lying about.”

Hermione resisted the urge to slap him. “Don’t jest, Ronald.” She bit instead. “The thought does help. Obviously, an ordinary spell or object can’t destroy them; basilisk fangs aren’t exactly common, and their venom only has one cure. So, a powerful, rare object must be necessary to destroy it.”

Silence engulfed them for several long minutes. No one offered an example or idea.

“Can you feel it though?” Ron said softly, returning the locket to the lioness.

Her brow furrowed, she squinted at the locket in her palm. It could have been her own mind playing tricks on her, but she nearly swore she felt a tiny, rhythmic thrumming within the locket, as if a heart was beating inside it.

“What do we do with it?”

“We keep it safe,” Harry said, reaching for the locket. Though he seemed to detest the idea, he hung it around his neck. “I think we should take turns and keep watch outside the tent. You, however,” he added to Ron, who had begun to rise. “Are staying put.”

Hermione took the first turn. While she was outside, she left the safety of the wards, and entered deeper into the forest. She returned a few minutes later, bearing a small cache of mushrooms and berries, and saw that the camp had disappeared. She would have been horribly frightened if it wasn’t for the small, curved glimmer of gold she saw, and with another step, the Veela wards admitted her easily. She unloaded her pockets on the table where Harry was setting up the Sneakoscope before she returned outside again.

At the end of her watch, she did what she could with the mushrooms and the berries. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and even though she was sure Harry hadn’t particularly enjoyed his portion, he’d eaten it all without fuss.

The evening passed without any problems, until Harry ‘fell asleep’ while on watch. Hermione had rushed to his side upon hearing his strangled cries, and wrenched him upright.

“He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione,” he panted without preamble. “He’s found him and I think he’s killed him, but before he did, he broke through him mind and I saw a thief. I didn’t recognize him, but—”

“Harry,” she said softly. “Go in and lie down. I’ll finish up the watch.”

“No, I can—”

“I know what these things do to your health. It’s almost detrimental. Go in, lie down, and rest.”

With great reluctance, he nodded, and went inside. Ron was more excited than she had been to hear about the vision, and they talked quietly from within, though the new vision gleaned no new insight, only a strange blond man. Even though they’d whispered, she heard every word. Despite her severed relationship, she was still Veela, and now, she hated it. She felt like she was taking advantage of Fleur, of the partnership, to have betrayed her so cruelly and still possess her ancestor’s magic and strength. She had imagined her senses would dull after she left. Instead, they’d sharpened. Every blade of grass flashed with a grand decorum as the wind lifted. Every insect crawling beneath her feet seemed thunderous in her ear. The air carried multitudes of scents that she’d have to sit and decipher one by one; the dust in the furniture, the trees surrounding them, the animals they hid, the distinctive odors belonging to both Harry and Ron, and the scent she could not get enough of wafted to her nostrils every time she opened her beaded bag. The blue Beauxbaton’s nightshirt had not yet been taken from her things, but had perfumed the inside of the handbag, made it thick with Fleur’s scent. Each night, she longed to take it out, to bury herself in the Veela’s scent, but she feared her own would taint it.

 

The weeks that followed proved more daunting than any of them could ever had imagined. Harry paid tribute to Mad-Eye and buried the magical blue eye beneath the largest, more gnarled tree he could find. He almost felt ridiculous, for if he’d left that eye in Umbridge’s door, the alarm for intruders wouldn’t have been raised, and perhaps they would still be in the warm confines of number twelve. But they were lost in the woods, traveling from forest to forest, desperate to remain undetected, even if it meant packing up and moving every thirty-six hours. They were all undernourished, and for the knowledge Hermione had of the forest and its treasures, she did not know enough to keep them all properly fed. She could not make a bow, nor had she mastered the silence necessary to stalk prey.

The lioness was withering away to skin and bones. The muscle she’d packed on was waning, though, perhaps still closely watched by Veela herself, she did not lose it all. She became lanky and thin, ate only her fair share, but somehow managed to retain the strength to keep going, pulling the boys on after her. They could not wholly understand; it was impossible. Even during the darkest moments, she was the driving force to continue. Veela’s words reverberated through her mind, over and over like a mantra.  _Act quickly._ The faster she completed this bloody task the faster she could meet Fleur again. Beg for her understanding. Grovel for her partial forgiveness. To lay herself bare before her mate, her dearest, confess her transgressions and do her best to move past them, if the Veela would allow.

Tensions began to run high between the three, mostly due to Ron’s constant bickering about being hungry and badgering them about food, when all they desired was time to think and plan their next move. Used to three hearty meals a day, he was a stranger to the slightest pang of hunger. Several times, Hermione had been met with the desire to tell him to leave.

The most notable time was when Harry had returned from a Muggle town in search of food, per Ron’s request, panting after he’d run from dementors after failing to produce a Patronus, Ron had ridiculed him, and asked what was next, but gave no insight or idea of his own. Hermione delivered a backhanded slap to his face after blinking at him in utter shock, and ordered him to his bunk. He nearly returned the blow, and Hermione, for she was fearless if nothing else, dared him to. The other Gryffindor smartly conceded defeat and stalked away, muttering obscenities to himself. Feathers remained ruffled, and refused to settle, so she and Harry took the matter into their own hands.

After a deal of thought, Hermione decided that the reason Harry had been unable to produce his Patronus was due to the Horcrux around his neck. With an insistent plea, she bore the Horcrux herself, and made a rule to pass it around, to protect it and each other. From within the depths of the tent, Ron loudly asked if they had concocted any other plans besides the one dealing with the bloody locket, more importantly plans that involved bacon. Harry had had to restrain Hermione himself.

They were pushed to the limits of their morals. With their camp set up near a little farm, they’d stolen eggs and bread, and for the first time in a long time, felt comfortably fed. Hermione had insisted on leaving money for the goods taken, to ease her conscious to some degree. With his stomach full, Ron had apologized to both Harry and Hermione, and promised to do better. His efforts only lasted so long. 

Ron remained most insufferable even after he’d freed his arm from its sling. He griped and complained, showing pointed disinterest in Harry and Hermione’s discussions of Horcruxes, and nearly got his head bitten off by the lioness several times following that first initial row. He’d been put in his place, but apparently needed placing again and again, due to either the Horcrux around his neck, the hunger in his gut, or the pride in his veins.

‘What’s the big deal?’ He’d asked her when she and Harry began talking about ways to destroy the Horcruxes for the millionth time. ‘It’s like you think it’s your life on the line, and not Harry’s!’

But it was her life. It was Fleur’s life. It was her parent’s and his own family's lives, and Remus’s and Tonks’s and their unborn child’s, and McGonagall’s, and Luna’s and Neville’s and every other bloody person’s. While hunger sat heavy in his stomach, the weight of the world pressed upon Harry and Hermione’s shoulders.

 

On one chilly evening, they finally caught a break. Between Harry and Ron’s bickering, Hermione’s keen ear detected voices, and hushed them immediately. She stopped breathing, and focused very hard on the tiny sounds, now covered only by the rushing river behind their tent, and stared so intently at the wall of canvas, she lost the ability to see altogether.

“The Sneakoscope’s not moving,” Harry whispered from behind her. “Did you cast the Muffliato charm over us?”

“I cast everything.” She hissed in return, straining with all her will to hear the voices again.

Presently, more noises sounded, several different footfalls pounded against her eardrum. Rocks and twigs scuttled along as the newcomers kicked them aside, and finally, their voices formed words instead of meaningless static, and a weary voice sounded out.

“There ought to be a few salmon in there, or d’you reckon it’s too early in the season?  _Accio Salmon!”_

“Extendable Ears?” Harry whispered. She pointed in the vague direction of her beaded bag, and he soon returned with three pairs, which was denied by the lioness.

Splashes sounded, followed closely by the slap of fish on flesh. There was an appreciative grunt and another incantation before the light of a fire revealed five silhouettes against the canvas. Soon, roasting salmon wafted to Hermione’s nostrils, and where before she hadn’t cared much for the fish, she found her mouth watering at the thought. Tin cutlery clinked against plates as they were doled out, and the first man spoke again.

“Here, Griphook, Gornuk,”

 _Goblins!_ She mouthed silently to the others.

“So, you three have been on the run how long?” asked a new, mellow voice. It was a soft, pleasant voice, one that easily conjured images of a round-bellied, cheerful-faced man. The voice was dreadfully familiar to Hermione’s ear, but she couldn’t quite match it to any man in her memory.

“Six, seven weeks? I forget,” the tired voice answered. “Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a bit of company.” Talk ceased for a moment as knives scratched against plates. “What ade you leave, Ted?”

“Knew they were coming for me,” the mellow voice replied. The image of Ted Tonks slammed into the forefront of Hermione’s mind, and she had to stifle her gasp. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle, you see, so I knew it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she’s pure-blood. And then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?”

“Yeah,” Hermione jumped. This voice she had no trouble recognizing, and neither did the other two. It belonged to Dean Thomas, their fellow, well-loved Gryffindor.

“Muggle-born, eh?” asked the first man.

“Not sure,” Dean returned. “My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard though.”

A moment of silence passed and the scratching continued. Then, Ted Tonks started again.

“I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you. Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.”

“I was,” Dirk returned. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it. Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon he’s quite right at the moment. Might be Confounded. If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard who did it, probably saved my life.”

“And where do you two fit in?” Ted asked, gesturing to the smaller shadows to his right. “I, er, had the impression the goblins were for You-Know-You on the whole.”

“You had a false impression,” a high voice answered. “We take no sides. This is a wizard’s war.”

“How come you’re in hiding, then?”

“I deemed it prudent,” a deeper-voiced goblin answered. “Having refused what I considered an impertinent request, I could see that my personal safety was in jeopardy.”

“What did they ask you to do?” Ted asked.

“Duties ill-befitting of my race,” replied the goblin. “I am not a house-elf.”

“What about you, Griphook?”

“Similar reasons,” the higher-pitched voice answered. “Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master.”

He added something in the goblins’ native language, and Gornuk laughed.

“What’s the joke?” said Dean.

“He said,” answered Dirk. “that there are things wizards don’t recognize either.”

There was a short pause.

“I don’t get it,” said Dean.

“I had my small revenge before I left,” said Griphook in English.

“Good man—goblin, I should say,” amended Ted hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock up a Death Eater in one of those old high-security vaults, I suppose?”

“If I had, the sword would not have helped him break out,” replied Griphook. Gornuk laughed again and even Dirk gave a dry chuckle.

“Dean and I are still missing something here,” Ted said.

“So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it,” said Griphook, and the two goblins erupted into vicious laughter.

“Didn’t you hear about that, Ted?” asked Dirk. “About the kids who tied to steal Gryffindor’s sword out of Snape’s office at Hogwarts?”

An electric current passed through the three eavesdroppers, and if they weren’t frozen in place before, they certainly were now.

“Never heard a word,” replied Ted. “Not in the  _Prophet,_ was it?”

“Hardly,” snorted Dirk. “Griphook here told me, he heard about it from Bill Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids that tried to take the sword was Bill’s younger sister.”

“She and a couple of friends got into Snape’s office and smashed open the glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them in the act as they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.”

“Ah, God bless ‘em,” said Ted fondly. “What did they think, that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself?”

“Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it was,” said Dirk. “Couple of says later, once he’d gotten word from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.”

The goblins started to laugh again.

“I’m still not seeing the joke,” said Ted.

“It’s a fake,” rasped Griphook.

“The sword of Gryffindor!”

“Oh yes. It is a copy—an excellent copy, it is true—but it is wizard-made. The original was forged centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties only goblin-made armor possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at Gringotts.”

“I see,” said Ted. “And I take it you didn’t bother telling the Death Eaters this?”

“I saw no reason to trouble them with the information,” said Griphook smugly, and now Ted and Dean joined in Gornuk and Dirk’s laughter.

“What happened to Ginny and the others?” Dean asked after a minute. “The ones who tried to steal it?”

“Oh, they were punished, and cruelly,” said Griphook indifferently.

“They’re okay, though?” Ted asked quickly. “I mean, the Weasleys don’t need any more of their kids injured, do they?”

“They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am aware,” said Griphook.

“Lucky for them,” Ted returned, relieved. “With Snape’s track record I suppose we should just be glad they’re still alive.”

“You believe that story then, do you? That Snape killed Dumbledore?” Dirk asked.

“’Course I do,” Ted replied. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you think Harry Potter had anything to do with it?

“Hard to know what to believe these days,” muttered Dirk.

“I know Harry Potter,” Dean piped up. “And I reckon he’s the real thing, the Chosen One and all that, whatever you want to call it.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of us who’d like to believe he’s that, son,” said Dirk. “Me included. But where is he? Run off by the looks of it. You’d think, if he knew something we don’t, or had anything special going for him, he’d be out there fighting, rallying resistance, instead of hiding. And you know, the _Prophet_ made a pretty good case against him—”

“The  _Prophet?”_ scoffed Ted. “You deserve to be lied to if you’re still reading that muck, Dirk. You want the facts, try the  _Quibbler.”_

There was a sudden explosion of choking and retching, plus a good deal of thumping; by the sound of it, Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he spluttered, “The  _Quibbler?_ That lunatic rag of Xeno Lovegood’s?”

“It’s not so lunatic these days,” said Ted. “You want to give a look. Xeno is printing all the stuff the _Prophet’s_ ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says on the front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.”

“Hard to help a boy who’d vanished off the face of the earth,” said Dirk.

“Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s one hell of an achievement,” said Ted. “I’d take tips from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” said Dirk heavily. “With the whole Ministry and all their informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t already caught and killed him without publicizing it?”

“Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmured Ted.

A few minutes passed in silence, save for the scraping of silverware on plates. Finally, one of them brought up the question of whether it was safer to sleep in the trees or on the riverbank. Deciding the woods would give far better cover, they extinguished their fire and clambered back up the incline, their voices fading away.

Harry and Ron slowly reeled their Extendable Ears in, looking bewildered. Hermione leapt into action, and dug excitedly through her beaded bag.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, studying her.

“The sword of Gryffindor,” she muttered, shoulders-deep in her bag. “Was hung right beside the first portrait of Phineas Nigellus. If someone swapped the real one for a fake, he would have seen it happen!”

Victorious, she pulled the ornate picture frame from the depths of the bag, and propped it against a wall of the tent. She held her wand at the ready, waiting for a reason to use it.

“Of course!” Harry said, clapping a hand to his forehead, ignoring Ron’s unhopeful muttering of “Unless he was sleeping.”

“Phineas Nigellus?” He called. “Professor Black? Please, could we talk to you? Please?”

“‘Please’ always helps,” said a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus sild into his portrait.

 _“Obscuro!”_ Hermione cried upon seeing him. A black blindfold appeared over his clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain.

“What? How dare—what are you—”

“I’m very sorry, Professor Black, but it’s a necessary precaution!”

“Remove this foul addition at once! Where am I? What’s going on?”

“Never mind where we are,” said Harry, and instantly, Phineas ceased his attempts to remove the blindfold.

“Can that possibly be the voice of the elusive Harry Potter?”

“Maybe,” Harry returned. “We’ve got a couple of questions for you—about the sword of Gryffindor.”

“Ah, yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there—”

“Shut up about my sister.” Ron growled.

Phineas’s eyebrows lifted. “Who else is here? Your tone displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardy in the extreme! Thieving from the headmaster!”

“They weren’t thieving.” Said Harry. “That sword isn’t Snape’s.”

“It belongs to Professor Snape’s school. Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl have on it? She deserved her punishment, as did the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!”

“Neville is not an idiot, and Luna is not an oddity,” Hermione returned heatedly.

“How were they punished?” Harry asked as the ex-headmaster began to fruitlessly claw at his blindfold again.

“Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.”

“Hagrid’s not an oaf!” Hermione retorted.

“And Snape must have thought that was punishment,” Harry picked up. “But Ginny, Neville and Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest… they’ve faced plenty worse than that!”

“What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is when the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean.” Hermione asked, willing a polite tone to her words.

Phineas snorted impatiently, fumbling for the exit into his first portrait. “I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.”

Hermione traded an incredulous look with Harry, while Phineas had finally located the exit.

“Well, good night to you all,” he called waspishly, and only the brim of his hat was visible when Harry shouted out a last sentence to him.

“Wait! Did you tell Snape this?”

Phineas sighed. “Professor Snape has more important things to worry about than the many eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore.  _Good night,_ Potter!” with that, he vanished completely.

The lioness turned to Harry. “The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades only imbibe that which strengthens them—Harry, that blade’s impregnated with basilisk venom!”

“And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket—”

“—and he must have realized that they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his will—”

“—so he made a copy—”

“—and he left the real one—where?”

The two gazed at each other, the answer concealed somewhere in the air between them.

“Think!” Hermione whispered, her brain whirring rapidly, throwing suggestions at her. “Think! Where would he have left it?”

“Not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, beginning to tap his foot while she paced.

“Somewhere in Hogsmeade?”

“The Shrieking Shack? Nobody ever goes in there.”

“But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn’t that be a little risky?”

“Dumbledore trusted Snape,”

“Not enough to tell him he swapped swords,”

“Yeah, you’re right!” said Harry, feeling even more cheered at the thought that Dumbledore had had reservations. “So he would have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What do you reckon, Ron? Ron?”

Hermione looked around, and thought for a moment he might have gone outside the tent, then realized he was sitting in the shadows of the lower bunk, looking stony.

“Oh, remembered me, have you?”

“What?”

Ron snorted and rolled his eyes. “You two carry on, don’t let me ruin your fun.”

Perplexed, the lioness traded a glance with Harry, who seemed to be just as confused as she was.

“What’s the problem?” asked Harry.

“Problem? There’s no problem,” Ron returned, refusing to look at either of them. “Not according to you, anyway.”

Rain began to fall heavily against the canvas roof of the tent, just a few drops here and there, but thunder rolled a short distance away and promised more.

“Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” Hermione said. “What is it?”

Finally, he looked at Harry, ignoring the lioness. “All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t know.”

“I don’t know?” Harry repeated.  _“I_ don’t know?”

“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here, you know, with my arm mangled, and nothing to eat, and freezing my backside off every night—”

“The time of your life?” Hermione shrieked, incredulous.  _“Your_ life? Have you any idea what I go though every fucking night?! Have you any idea how happy it makes me to have  _some_ bloody thing to do other than root around for mushrooms and berries and translate bloody runes, and listen to you bitch and whine every God-forsaken hour?” her voice continued to rise, in both pitch and ferocity. “Have you any  _idea_ how hard it is to look up at the ceiling at night and wonder if the woman I love isn’t dead? I can only see the stars so often, Ron! I can only be so sure! I can only wonder how long it’ll take before I’m dead on the ground with her!

“Have you any idea what it feels like to have guilt eat away at your insides like fucking maggots in a corpse! Have you any idea what it’s like to do the very best you can, and be told that it isn’t good enough? No, the mushrooms aren’t very tasty, nor filling, but it’s what we have!” she snarled, barely pausing for breath. “And if you ever thought that this mission would be a stroll in the park, finding a Horcrux every other day, destroying them without a care, staying in five-star hotels with hot food and warm beds, perhaps even being home to Mummy by Christmas, I don’t know what the hell you thought you were signing up for!”

“Take the locket off, Ron,” Harry said calmly, though he felt quite hollow inside. After all Hermione had just said, screamed, he didn’t know what else to add.

He drew the chain from around his neck where it had sat the whole day, and threw it to the floor.

“I’ve been straight with you the whole time,” Harry continued, words coming to him. “I told you everything Dumbledore told me from the beginning.” The rain picked up as the bottom fell out of the cloud, and thunder roared in appreciation. “In case you haven’t noticed, we have accomplished something. We have a Horcrux—”

“And we’re about as close as finding another one, aren’t we?” Ron snarled.

“Why are you still here, then? If you don’t have any faith left in what Dumbledore told us to do?” Hermione growled.

“Search me,” said Ron.

“Go home, then.” Harry said.

“Maybe I will!” shouted Ron, advancing towards Harry, who held his ground. Hermione stepped nearer, unsure and untrusting of Ron’s next move. A low growl sounded from deep in her throat, primal and instinctive. Ron continued as though he hadn’t noticed her. “Did you hear what they said about my sister? But you don’t give a shit, do you, it’s only the Forbidden Forest, Harry  _I’ve-Faced-Worse_ Potter doesn’t care what happens to her in here—well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff—”

“How many times have we been in the forest with Hagrid?” Hermione challenged. “She was with other people, strong, dependable people! Their punishment could have been far more severe!”

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t care! And what about the rest of my family, ‘the Weasleys don’t need another kid getting injured,’ did you hear that?”

“Think about it!” Hermione cried. “Bill’s scarred, George is missing an ear, and  _you’re_ supposedly dying of spattergoit!”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t bother myself about them. It’s all right for you two, isn’t it, with both your parents safely out of the way—”

“My parents are dead!” Harry bellowed.

“And mine could be going the same way!”

“Then GO!” Harry roared. “Go back to them, pretend you’d got over your spattergoit, and Mummy’ll be able to feed you up and—”

Ron made a sudden movement, and just as Harry reacted, Hermione was already waving her own wand.

 _“Protego!”_ she shouted, and the force of the spell knocked Ron back several feet. Something shattered in that moment, something strong and sturdy crumbled to dust between the three of them. Without another word, Ron grabbed his bag, and left the tent. There was a small  _pop,_ and Hermione’s rage evaporated. She killed the shield charm in front of her, and sank to the floor.

How much more could she stand to lose? Harry was truly all she had left. He was it. And how horribly unfair that now, she was all he had in return. Reality fell upon his shoulders, and he too, sank to the floor. They leaned in to each other, and cried together. They lamented the loss of everything they’d once had. He cried for Ginny. She sobbed for Fleur. They wailed for their parents, for their homes that had been taken, for the normalcy they had been denied. Together, they nursed the gaping wound Ron had left. Ron, the Gryffindor who’d lost his bravery, the Gryffindor who’d lost his fire. What would the Sorting Hat name him now? Ravenclaw was out of the question; wit had never been his strong suit. Hufflepuff? Impossible, for their loyalty was unwavering. Slytherin? Unlikely. The desire to return to safety and his home weren’t ambitions. They were understandably selfish desires, nothing more nor less.

As they days passed, their conversations were fixed solely on the mystery of the Horcrux and how to destroy them. With the distraction given, it made Ron’s absence slightly more bearable, for a hole was left in his wake. No, he hadn’t been of much help, nor had he been of much encouragement, but he had been their friend, and was part of the only thing they’d had left. Part of what had mercifully went unsacrificed.

During her watch, Hermione paced outside the tent in irritation, grumbling lowly to herself. Stupid Horcruxes. Meaningless, confusing, useless, wastes of time! What did they mean? What were they for? How does one kill them? Her hand shot to her neck and forced the chain over her head, throwing it to the ground. The insanity and buzz in her head receded, and allowed her to think clearly. She sneered at the deep emerald and it glared back, glinting in the light. The cold bit into her muscles, nearly causing them to fail. She shook herself and drew back into her clothes as deeply as she could. Damn thing even prevented her from feeling the bite of coming winter.

The Gryffindor sat down on a rock after lifting the chain from the ground in distain. She looked up at the sky and wondered where her dearest was, how she doing, if she was alive. A deep sigh filled her chest and left in a cloud from her lips. Her eyes wondered to the ground. If she ever saw Fleur again, what would she say to her? How could she possibly offer an apology? After leaving her without an explanation, without the truth, without as much as a goodbye! All in the name of protecting the woman she loved! All because the evil that pursued her would surly kill her beloved only to draw her out, to kill her as well and leave Harry to his own defenses. A deep scowl carved itself into her mouth. She spit into the grass with disgust. How desperately she yearned to purge the earth of its taint, to defeat all who stood in her way and return to Fleur, to beg and grovel for forgiveness of her lie and betrayal.

What about her parents? The thought came quickly and was most uninvited. What would she say if she returned to them? ‘Hello, I’m your daughter, I’m also a lesbian whose love is the descendant of a siren, but most importantly I’m a witch, and that’s why you have no memory of me because I wiped your conscious clean for fear a dark wizard would kill you simply for being my parents’? She couldn’t bear the thought and with great effort, forced it from her mind.

A memory of Hogwarts surfaced; the first time she’d laid eyes on the castle that became her kingdom. Her heart ached for the familiarity of her corner, the smell of books and ink thick in her senses, the Room of Requirement where she’d taught and practiced as they trained Dumbledore’s Army, the corridors where so many of Peeve’s shenanigans took place, the warm meals every day at the long House tables. She idly wondered who claimed the room and bed she’d slept in.

Hermione sighed again sadly. She thought of her other homes. With a bitter sorrow, she thought of the house she’d grown up in, the amazement on her parent’s faces when she received her letter and then again when Fleur met them and told them of her heritage. She remembered their large German Shepherd Beau, who’d always slept at the foot of her bed during thunderstorms. She thought of Number 12, where Kreacher undoubtedly awaited his master’s return. She thought of the Burrow and all the summer days she’d spent there, how happy she was to breathe the fresh air and help Mrs. Weasley gather eggs. She thought of Fleur’s family’s house, the large, sprawling vineyards, and the smell of horses. She thought of the small cottage where Fleur had lived while she worked at Gringotts, her bedroom where they’d first made love…

The lioness wiped the tears from her cheeks and growled lowly. She shook her head in contempt. She had a mission, a duty. That was her first priority, above any and everything else. If she kept her promise and protected her world, if she purged it, then she could enjoy the pleasures that came with it. If she lost that world, that chance, there would be no enjoyment, no pleasures. Only impending death, inevitable and merciless. Her sacrifices were for more than her own benefit, she reminded herself. They were for those she loved, those who tried to do the right thing, those who had already died for seeking out the good. She refused to allow their deaths to remain in vain. She would purge them, avenge them, or at the very least die trying.

A new sense of patriotism swept through her heart. She lifted her chin and her tears evaporated from her eyes. Her lips pressed themselves into a grim line and she stood sharply. She drew her wand and cast a silencing charm over her. Unconvinced, she cast three more. And then she screamed. She cursed the stars. She let her jaw open wide and allowed the darkest curses she knew to leap from her lips like venom. Her throat constricted around her words, throwing them into the hollow of her mouth and into the night. She bore her teeth as she cursed the bight, happy, twinkling things above her head. The sky echoed back to her, chanting her curses like a promise or a prayer, the charms around her shimmered as each word struck its surface in a silent, wrathful rhythm. The stars seemed to dim, offended, but only one refused to relinquish its light. Orion shone out proudly against the field of its sisters and brothers, smiling sadly down at her.

Hermione panted for breath, overwhelmed by her rage and the vanity of the star. She remembered how carefully the Veela’s finger had traced the sky when she’d first accepted her love and companionship, how happy she had been to stare out at vast grounds of Hogwarts. How her voice had whispered softly from beside her ear, naming planets and constellations alike. The look in her eyes when Hermione had placed herself before the blonde, dropping her first kiss to Fleur’s lips and taking what the stars declared as hers.

She looked up again after several long minutes, only to see even Orion had begun to fade as well, giving way to the light that was beginning to break the horizon. The Gryffindor pressed a hand to her head, and took a deep breath. She killed her silencing charms, and entered the tent again, finding Harry asleep on the couch. She smiled slightly when she noticed Beedle rested on his chest,  _The Spellman’s Syllabary_ open beside him. With the books in her hands, she went into her room and crawled into bed, clutching Fleur’s shirt to her cheek, breathing in what was left of the blonde’s scent. It provided some comfort, but not enough to stop her tears.

She’d never forgive herself, even if the Veela did.

 


	19. Chasms, Caves, and Titan Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. Not much to say on this one, though I do hope you'll enjoy it. Shout-out to my great friend and beta, I'm so lucky to have you in my life, dear, and I can't thank you enough. I would also like to thank everyone who's dropped a comment or kudo recently. Thank you for your support and enthusiasm! Enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> Regina  
> (Title, once again, from Dream-Land)

The orphaned pup proved to be more of a nuisance than a help in the weeks that followed. She had pranced around happily, even as the Veela searched for food. She startled potential prey, and the blonde desperately needed the sustenance. Eventually, the pangs of hunger even reached the pup, and she whined softly to the blonde. A rabbit they’d been stalking heard the sound and sprinted away, dissolving into the forest.

The Veela turned her head sharply and bore her teeth, a loud snarl bursting from her throat. The pup cowered back with wide eyes and flattened ears. The blonde turned back again, settling her hands and feet into the ground. They waited, and the pup, still quivering, dared not make a sound. A fluttering in the forest drew the Veela’s attention. Quietly, cautiously, she crept forward, her belly low to the ground. The pup followed, taking care to place her paws in the spaces walked upon by the Veela.

The blonde stopped suddenly, her nostrils flared and eyebrows raised. A young buck had paused to rub his antlers against a tree, felt falling to the ground like ash. Blue eyes dilated and strong legs pushed her forward. She fell on the buck, holding his antlers in her hands as he fought against her assault. Her fangs found an artery and the deer hit the ground. The pup burst from where she had stopped, dancing around the kill. Blood dripped down the Veela’s chin, and she shook it off in irritation.

For days, the two lived off the buck. His body gave them nutrients and his death gave them life. But while the need to hunt was staved off for the moment, they faced another task. Vultures and other scavengers tried to steal their catch, but were met with growls and snarls each time. With a distended belly, the she-wolf stretched out on the ground, sighing in content. The Veela had lain down as well, an eye keeping watch on the sky.

 

As she was provided meals, the she-wolf grew, much bigger than the Veela had expected. She soon became strong and lean, and having laboriously forged a language between them, they hunted together and hardly ever missed a kill. Winter had set in, but with a thick mantel of fur, the she-wolf hardly felt the chill. The Veela’s blood recognized the change in season, and had raised her body temperature to combat the bite.

They hunted together now; careful padded paws and calloused feet stole over the rocky landscape. Neither had seen, heard, or smelled prey, and with hunger sitting heavy in their guts, they were forced to continue, noses in the air and eyes growing useless in the dark. The breeze lifted and the Veela’s nostrils flared to catch a scent, but the wind changed course and took the scent with it. They came to a cold stream, and paused to drink. The water had just begun to freeze, and coiled icily in their stomachs.

A streak of light blurred noiselessly past them, graceful and lithe, glowing even in the darkest part of the forest. The she-wolf looked after it curiously, trotting over to where the beast had run. She found no scent or footfall there, and looked back to the Veela. But the Veela was not looking in her direction, but away, after the thing that had resembled a doe. The she-wolf whined softly, gaining her attention. Her tail wagged slightly, invitingly.

Without warning, the blonde leapt up and sprinted into the forest, away from the potential prey. The she-wolf, though confused, followed closely, and they covered miles with ease. But when they stopped, the Veela looked frantic, her chest expanded widely, but not from the run; compared to the usual chase for food, it had been a short distance. Her eyes were wide, nostrils flared, but not in the way that meant prey was near. This look was one of fear, and that fear struck the she-wolf as well, for if her alpha was afraid, death must be imminent.  

The Veela started again, taking long, leaping strides. She tore through brambles and thorns without a thought, splashed though the river that was mother to the stream they had drank from, and continued her flee. The she-wolf followed on her heels, turning this way and that, keeping the Veela in her line of sight. When even the wolf began to fall back, the Veela stopped again in a small clearing.

The panicked look had eased from her eye, but anxiety still wavered in every movement. Panting, the she-wolf desperately searched the air for any hint to the threat obviously detected by the Veela, but found nothing. A howl tore through the night, and both their backs went ridged. The she-wolf bristled, baring her teeth, but the Veela growled at her, forcing her under a bush of tangled vines. When she started to emerge, the Veela snarled again, eyebrows down, nearly every tooth visible. The she-wolf ducked her head, flattened her ears, and obeyed.

The Veela quickly ran to the other side of the clearing and waited. She crouched down, wide eyes scanning her surroundings. Tall cloaked figures loomed out of the darkness. They approached her with a swift, military stride and converged on her at once.

“Ah, so you have found her.” A voice rumbled. “Very good. The Dark Lord will be pleased.”

“Well,” another voice spoke up. “Shall we kill her?”

“Kill her?” The first laughed. “Good heavens, no! Look at her. She’s a dying savage. Those blood traitors were telling the truth, then. Hermione Granger left her poor mutt to die.” At the mention of Hermione’s name, the Veela crumpled in on herself, shrieking in pain. She tore at the ground with her nails, panting to take breath. Words held no meaning in her current state of primitive mind, but that sound, though she didn’t understand, sent pain ripping through her as if it were a curse.

“Isn’t that interesting? _Hermione.”_ Again, a piercing shriek tore the Veela’s larynx. Leaves shuffled underfoot as the owner of the voice stooped to get a closer look at her. His voice uttered the lioness’s name again, and the others joined in, chanting her name like a satanic prayer of pain and torture.

A different voice spoke up, panting and wheezing from laughter. “Mmm, she used to be a looker. Even _I_ wouldn’t eat her now!” it cackled.

“Oh Fenrir, why be so rude? You’ve eaten Mudbloods before.” A scoff was returned.

“Why don’t we have a little fun, hm? Little wretch looks as though a nudge in the right direction will—”

“Oh, no, we shouldn’t kill the poor dearie!” a voice declared. “She’s in torture already! I’ve heard that Veela, without their mates, live for years mourning their loss.” The voice laughed mockingly. “You would do her a favor by killing her, and we do not perform favors for half-breeds, do we? Or shall I report to the Dark Lord that you pity the scum?”

“Of course not, Yaxley. Forgive me, I do not know much of Veela culture.”

“You’ll do well to remember it. _Crucio.”_ The curse shattered the Veela’s bones. It vibrated within her soul. It shook every foundation her mind had forged to the ground. She screamed her pain, writhed on the ground like a dying snake with its force. Her eyes bulged in their sockets as her lungs expelled the air they held. The curse was lifted, and she panted for breath. Voices howled their laughter and approval. Only she heard the low growl coming from the tangled thicket and kept her voice up to conceal it. The curse was uttered again, and again she was rendered useless under its force. Memories pulled at her conscious, trying to break into view, but something held them back. She heard a voice form the other side of the veil, but it sounded as though underwater. She growled and snarled and felt a ripping pain flare through her whole body. The curse was lifted, but the pain did not relent. Her body shook as though she’d just fallen through an iced-over river. Her skin felt tight, too tight, constricting her lungs and compressing her diaphragm.

“Yaxley, what—what’s happening to her?”

Yaxley’s voice faltered as he tried to come up with an explanation. “When the Veela are nearly ready to die,” he started, gaining confidence as he spoke. “They change into the forms of their ancestors. She doesn’t have long now.” He uttered the curse again, and was met with the writhing, mutating form of the Veela.

Long feathers burst from her skin, tinged with blood and raised in fury. Her hands and nails grew into talons, her body covered in dark blue plumes, but no wings grew from her shoulders. Her mouth opened and a terrible, throat-shredding howl shattered the silence that had fallen. It rang off the trees and the fauna leapt to flee. Every ounce of breath was poured into that screech; one that had went unheard for centuries. The true, roaring scream of the primitive Veela tore the air into pieces and made the stars shudder into darkness.

 The veil that had stood guard from her conscious mind and the underwater voice was rent with the scream’s utterance. Memories flooded back, of her parents, her grandmother’s lessons of love and mates, Hermione, Hogwarts, Hermione, that wedding, Hermione, that damned letter, Hermione, the entrance to the forest, Hermione, her pain and her weakness and her tears, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione—and the voice in her head screamed, _DO NOT SPEAK!!!_

When she had returned to consciousness and her screams’ echoes died against the blanket of sky and flora, her feathered chest heaved with labored breaths. Her eyes were tightly closed. Her hands were tightly clenched. Before she could think to defend herself, the curse beat her again, and did not stop as identicals were shot at her from multiple wands. She could not tell how long she lasted, for minutes ticked by like hours, and finally, somehow, she surrendered to a black abyss, and did not return.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Godric’s Hollow was completely blanketed with snow. Hermione stood silent beside Harry, one arm draped over his shoulder. Tears had frozen on the lion’s face as he stared down at the stones that marked his mother and father’s final resting place. Hermione squeezed him gently, and with a flick of her wand, built a beautiful wreath of Christmas roses in midair, and settled it peacefully over the graves. Harry nodded in appreciation, and declined the invitation to have a few moments alone. The lioness tried to make the moment as private as possible.

In the silent refuge of her mind, she began to string possibilities together. The triangular eye she’d found, penciled in Beedle’s book, had also been carved over the name that appeared to be ‘Ignotus,’ but the stone far too weathered to know with utmost certainty. It had to be Christmas Eve, for lights had been stung over several houses, and carols sounded from the church across the square. They’d already passed the mangled remains of the Potter’s cottage, seen the graffiti on the sign to the monument and felt a small, metaphorical pat on the back from the kind words written there. With nowhere else to turn, no other leads to follow, the lioness desperately hoped that Godric’s hollow held answers. So far, the only thing that had been offered to them was the reappearance of the eye; Grindelwald’s mark, it was called.    

Without preamble, Harry began to move away from the grave, shuffling along in the image of a Muggle man. His arm did not loosen from around her, so she was pulled along with him. A soft, rustling sound drew her attention, and she came to an unintentional stop.

“Someone’s watching us,” she whispered, kicking at the snow stuck to her boots to excuse her sudden halt. Harry looked behind them in time to see a branch move from a tree behind them.

“It’s probably just a cat or a bird,” he returned softly.

“No, Harry, I can smell something. It’s not feline or avian,” she drew a breath, rolling the scent over her memory.

“If it’s human I’m sure there were plenty of them walking up and down this street,” he said shortly. “You can’t expect them not to. Besides, we look like Muggles.”

Hermione sighed softly, silently thanking her native attention to detail. “Muggles who were just laid flowers on your parents’ grave.”

“If it were a Death Eater we’d be dead by now. In any case, let’s get out of here and put the Cloak back on.”

Under the cover of shadow, they threw the Cloak over themselves, and continued along the deserted street, Hermione erasing their footprints as they were made.

They passed the remains of the Potter’s cottage, just as they were, an old, hunched over woman seemed to be staring at them. She was heavily cloaked against the cold, but Hermione was sure it had been age that had crippled her so. They stopped in their tracks, studying the woman as she studied them, despite their covering by the Cloak. Suddenly, she lifted a hand and beckoned them.

“How can she possibly see us?” Hermione hissed lowly, shivers that had nothing to do with the cold raced along her spine.

The woman beckoned again, more vigorously, and Harry, heeding not a word of protest from Hermione, followed.

“What if she’s Bathilda, Hermione, and Dumbledore told her we’d come here?” he muttered, dragging her along. The lioness followed with utmost reluctance, her own bones screaming at her to turn the other way. But she followed Harry as he followed the crone, her wand drawn.

“Are you Bathilda?” Harry spoke, stopping his approach a good distance away from her. She nodded, and beckoned again. Harry resumed ignoring Hermione’s protests, and the old woman began shuffling away. She led them past several houses before they turned into a yard that was almost as wild and overgrown as the Potters’. Fumbling with a key for a moment, she finally pushed the door open, and stood aside so they could pass. As they did, Hermione’s body nearly went into a frenzy at the scents that entered her nostrils. Mold, dust, decay, and filth all vied for dominance, each was so strong, she nearly retched.

Harry pulled the Cloak from their bodies and asked again if she was indeed Bathilda, and received the same reply. She shuffled into what appeared to be a sitting room, and Hermione turned to Harry with utter terror across her features.

“Harry, this can’t be a good idea, I smell—”

A strange noise sounded from the room in which Bathilda had entered. The lioness visibly jumped, her eyes completely dilated with anxiety. The noise wasn’t a normal sound. It wasn’t a scraping of a stool or chair against the floor, nor the shattering of a mug or glass, nor was it a word in a language she recognized. In her current state of distress, she was unsure if she’d actually heard the breathy quality that suggested the noise had indeed been a word of some sort, or if it was her subconscious throwing ideas into reality, making up for what she could not explain.

“It’s fine,” Harry said softly, looking at her with compassion and ignorant trust. “Look at the size of her, I think we could overpower her if we need to. And, I should have warned you, but Muriel said she was ‘gaga,’ but harmless. Let’s go,”

When they entered, Bathilda was hobbling around the room lighting candles with matches, her hands shaking as she did. Harry readily volunteered to complete the task for her, and took the book of matches from her. Hermione helped ready the logs in the fireplace, and set them to burn.

“Mrs.—Miss—Bagshot?” Harry asked, his voice shaking slightly. In his hand, he held an old photo of a merry-faced blond man. “Who is this?”

Bathilda stood in the middle of the room, intently watching the lioness. Hermione’s hair stood on end as the cataract-covered eyes pierced her soul. Harry repeated his question several times, but Bathilda never answered him.

Without looking away from the woman before her, Hermione addressed Harry. “Harry, what are you doing?”

“This picture, Hermione, it’s the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!” he said to Bathilda. “Who is this?” she broke her stare from Hermione and turned to him, silent.

“Why did you ask us to come with you Mrs.—Miss—Bagshot?” Hermione asked, raising her voice. “Was there something you wanted to tell us?”

Giving no sign that she had heard her, she shuffled toward Harry. With a little jerk of her head, she looked back into the hall.

“You want us to leave?” he asked.

She repeated the gesture, this time pointing first at him, then herself, then the ceiling.

“Oh, right… Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her.”

The lioness lost all the color in her face but she nodded nonetheless. “All right, let’s go.” But when Hermione took a step, Bathilda shook her head with surprising force, and repeated the gesturing between herself, Harry, and the ceiling.

“I think she wants me to go upstairs with her, alone.”

Every process in her body halted at the mere notion of being separated. “Harry, please, no I don’t think—”

“It’ll be fine, all right? I’ll call if I need you.”

“Harry, wait!” she grasped his arm just before he turned. “I don’t like this, it doesn’t feel right—”

“What if she has the sword? What if Dumbledore told her to give it to me and me alone?”

“Do you really think she knows who you are?”

“Yes,” Harry returned, looking into the milky eyes that held his own. “I think she does.”

Her grip slickened. He smiled serenely at her.

“Be back in a flash.” And he was gone, following the old woman

Hermione instantly set to pacing, regretting the very moment that she’d decided against Apparating away with Harry. Something wasn’t right. Something was horribly wrong. Decay and dust hung thick in her nose, and her body seemed most unwilling to calm. Her senses sharpened, and she could hear Harry speaking softly above her. She went back into the sitting room, her shadow cast ghostly on the walls, and lifted a book. _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._ Rita’s new book. A note was sticking out of the top, its spine was stiff, obviously very new and largely untouched. Undaunted, she pulled the note and read it to herself.

_Dear Batty, thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don’t remember it. Rita._

Without thinking, she slipped both the note and the book into her beaded bag. She returned to the hall, and continued pacing. Again, from above, she head the same, strange, wordless language from earlier, and suddenly reality hit her with full force.

“Parseltongue.”

She was up the stairs before the word could finish falling from her mouth. The moment she entered the room, she saw Harry hit the floor, a large mass of writhing muscle constricting around him. With neither care nor thought, she brandished her wand and dragged the coils of the snake off him. The serpent turned to attack her instead, and she dived aside, rolling over the filthy floor before springing back up and continue fighting the foul creature.

“He’s coming!” Harry yelled from her right. _“Hermione, he’s coming!”_

As he yelled, the snake fell, hissing madly as it crashed into every bit of furniture in the room, splintering antique pieces and shattering glass. Harry found his wand where it had fallen to the floor, and reached out to the dark mass from which spells were bursting, and clutched at it. Hermione screamed as she was pulled back by her hair and as Harry crashed through the window, dragging her with him, and as they fell to the ground, empty space engulfing them as Harry turned midair, and into the suffocating tube of Apparation. 

 

Hermione fell to the ground outside their tent with a loud, strangled cry, stars burst behind her eyes as her head struck the unforgiving earth. Nearly knocked unconscious, she lay, dazed for several long minutes, before she truly became aware of strange sounds emitting from beside her.

Harry lay on his side a short distance away, whimpering, crying, screaming, cursing.

She rushed to his side, and desperately tried to rouse him from whatever hell he’d fallen into. He would not open his eyes, and the stark outline of the Horcrux stood out blatantly from his chest. Try as she might, she could not move it. Pushed to the very limits of her wits, she drew her wand, tore his shirt open and cut the bloody thing off. Even with pieces of his skin stuck to the locket, it seemed reluctant to leave his body. She flung the offending object from her, and mended his wounds as best she could, horribly displeased when the removal of the Horcrux did little to ease his torment.

Beside him, his wand lay in two pieces, a strand of phoenix feather connecting the slender holly. Gingerly, as if it were a wounded creature, Hermione lifted it, and though she doubted it would work, repaired it. The halves snapped together again, and was whole, but it felt weak and hollow in her palm.

It wasn’t until several moments later that the horrible, cold bite of winter sank its teeth into her body. She stood with great effort, and lifted Harry into her arms. She lay him down in the bottom bunk, and stripped his shirt entirely from his body. His arm bore the cruel marks of a snake bite, and she worked very diligently to repair the wound, sprinkled dittany over the open skin, and waited. She conjured a basin of water and a sponge, and for hours, until the breach of dawn, sat with him, calling to him, begging him to wake up. Finally, his eyes opened.

“Harry,” she whispered.  “Do you feel all right?”

“Yes,” he said, the lie barely moving his lips. “We got away,” he said softly after a few minutes.

“Yes,” she returned. “You’ve been… quite… restless,” she settled uncertainly.

He studied her silently, the memories of Voldemort swirling through his head. He found refuge in the familiarity of her hazel eyes, and focused on them to forget everything he’d seen in his head. Beneath the tired hazel, deep purple rested, drooping the usually fierce, determined features.

“You’ve been ill,” she said softly.

“How long ago did we leave?”

“Hours ago. It’s past dawn.”

“And I’ve been—what, unconscious?”

“Not… not exactly… you’ve been shouting, moaning and… things.” She paused and drew a breath. “I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you. It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m so sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you too, but the wounds have been cleaned, and I’ve put dittany on them…”

He looked down at his bare chest. An oval of raw skin marked where the Horcrux had lain.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her right hand coming up to grasp the golden feather around her neck, a movement he’d been seeing constantly since they’d left. “I—you were never still enough for me to put a fresh shirt on you. Kept jerking and the like…”

He shook it off and looked at his forearm, where he bore half-healed puncture wounds. “It’s fine, really, thanks for helping me. Where’ve you put the Horcrux?”

“In my bag. I think it’s best if we don’t wear it for a while.”

He fell silent for several long minutes. “We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow.” He said at last. “It’s my fault, all my fault, Hermione. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to go too; I really though Dumbledore might have left the sword there for you.”

“Well, we got that wrong, didn’t we?”

“What happened, Harry?” she asked, her voice hard. “What happened when she took you upstairs? Was the snake hiding?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed dryly. “It was hiding inside her.”

She looked at him at though he’d spoken an alien tongue.

“Inside Bathilda. You-Know-Who must have put her there, to wait. You were right, he knew I’d go back.”

“The snake was _inside_ her?”

“Lupin said there’d be magic we’d never imagined,” Harry returned. “She didn’t want to talk in front of you because it was—”

“Parseltounge.” Hermione finished. “I realized just before I went upstairs.”

Harry nodded. “Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there… and then…” he paused for a moment, fighting a shiver. “She—she changed into the snake and attacked.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to kill me, just keep me there until he arrived.” He suddenly sat bolt upright. If only he’d killed the snake, the whole bloody thing might have been worthwhile… she was supposedly a Horcrux too…

“Harry, no, I’m sure you ought to rest!” Hermione protested.

“You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look like shit. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch for a while. Where’s my wand?”

Her face crumpled. “Harry…”

“Where’s my wand?”

She sucked in a breath. “It was broken sometime during the fight last night. I’ve repaired it, but I don’t think it’ll be the same…” with great reluctance, she placed the holly wand in his hand. It looked strong, but, like Hermione had sensed, felt weak as it sat in his hand.

_“Lumos!”_ The tip of his wand flickered faintly before it went out. He turned to Hermione, who drew her own wand. _“Expellarmus!”_ Her wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave her hand. The feeble attempt at magic was too much for Harry’s wand, and once again, it fell into halves. Harry looked down at his wand, the twin phoenix core, the vessel of magic that had sent the golden flames to rid Voldemort from him not even a year ago, the wand that had proven that yes, he was indeed a wizard. The wand that had survived so much, now weak and broken in his hand.

“We’ll—we’ll find a way to repair it,” he said mechanically.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to…” Hermione said softly, tears leaving her eyes at the pain and sorrow etched on her dear friend’s face. “When Ron’s wand was broken, in the crash, it was never the same again. He had to get a new one…”

Harry stood. “In that case, I’ll borrow yours when it’s my turn to watch. Get some rest.” He left the room noiselessly, Hermione’s wand in his hand. The lioness sighed heavily, and crawled into her own bed, dabbing at her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Veela woke to the she-wolf sniffing tentatively at her, a cold, wet nose pressed to her neck. The Veela hissed softly and picked herself up. Upon hearing the sound, the wolf retreated and growled. The blonde whimpered softly, and the wolf approached. When scent confirmed the Veela, the she-wolf nuzzled her firmly, licking at her cheek in happiness. But the Veela did not celebrate. She rubbed her talons through the wolf’s fur carefully before sprinting into the forest again, and the wolf followed her faithfully.

It took weeks to reach the point of forest where she had entered. The wolf had taken to hunting on her own, for the Veela only stopped to snatch a few hours of sleep, hardly patient enough to even wait for the she-wolf’s return. Finally, familiarity and memory proved strong and she saw the village through the branches. As she crossed the threshold between forest and village, she felt a lonely sensation fill her heart, like she had just relinquished her embrace with the trees. Her grandmother was watching two Veela children play in the snow, watchful eyes ever weary. Her head lifted, and as it did, her eyes widened when she saw her younger mirror twin standing with a coat of feathers and an enormous wolf at her side. She ordered the children to return home promptly and ran to her granddaughter, wrapping her in her arms and pulling her into her home.

The quarter-Veela could not speak, though she tried. Her grandmother, a knowing glint in her eye as she smiled, instructed her to sit, and began to process of pulling her first feathers one by one. When the last joined the others in the fire for sacrifice, the blood had been washed from her body, and clothes returned to her, Fleur spoke.

“I’m alive.” Her voice rang emptily, husky as it had went unused for so long.

“Yes, my dear you are alive!” her grandmother exclaimed. “I knew you would be! Here, dear, I kept this for you, although you may not need it anymore, it’s nice to have.” She handed her back the nine and a half inch rosewood wand. The wand emitted blue and gold sparks at her touch, as if it had missed her.

She studied it carefully, as well as the she-wolf who refused to leave her side. “She’s alive, Grand-mère. We’re both alive.”

“Yes, my dear.” The Veela sighed. “A very old piece of our heritage was put to use in the past several months.”

“How? How can I still be alive?”

“She never stopped loving you.” Her grandmother’s voice rang out with conviction and wisdom. “She did what she did on purpose. She did it to protect you and herself. She’ll find her way back to you.”

“She lied.”

“And for good reason. If they had found you and killed you, or found her and killed her, both of you would be dead. But no, she lied to protect you, so if they found you they’d think that you were in more torment than they could have provided and that if they killed you, it’d be in your favor. So you both live, my dearest. They think you’re dead. You’re stronger now, she will find you.”

“It does not excuse what she did.” Fleur rumbled. “Even if they hadn’t found me, I still could have been, and should be, dead.”

“No, it does not. And despite the proof before me, you were dead for a time. A few days, from what your stars said. Sometimes we must die in order to become stronger.”

“I must find her.” Fleur growled softly, beginning to rise.

“No! Do not look for her, you’ll never find her! I taught her concealment spells. If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. No, you must wait.”

“And do what?! Sit around and wait for her to knock on my door?” She yelled, taking a ravaged breath. She bowed her head in apology under her grandmother’s stern and sharp eye.

“Stay here. Learn our magic. Learn deeper than you know now. You’ve worn feathers, Fleur. What was impossible before is now well within your grasp and limitless. Channel your pain and anger and use it against your enemies. After you’ve trained, go to the Order. Fight for them; they certainly need it.”

The quarter-Veela nodded solemnly. “What about her?” She asked softly, nodding to the she-wolf.

“Ah. A guide.”

Fleur lifted a brow. “A guide? She hasn’t guided me anywhere.”

“She helped you heal. She took you away from solitude and formed a bond with you. She’s protected you from yourself, as well as from others, just as you have protected her. She won’t leave you, Fleur; you are her alpha, her sister. What is your name?” she asked softly, looking curiously at the wolf.

“Lykopis,” Asteria murmured after a moment. The wolf thumped her tail against the ground once. “Sent from the Mothers themselves. Lots of gifts given to you, Fleur. She will accompany you on your journeys, and never once will she falter.”

Fleur did not answer for several long minutes, running over every word she’d heard. Finally, she spoke. “Teach me, Grand-mère. Show me where my limitations stopped me before.”

 

For days on end, Fleur practiced. As Asteria had predicted, the quarter-Veela no longer needed her wand to summon magic. It came easily, bursting from her hands without so much as burning her flesh. She delved deeper than she ever could have imagined. Though her blood was still quarter, her soul was pure Veela, given to her by the Mother herself the moment feathers broke through her skin. She read the stars with a honed ease, she recognized each thrum of life around her, from the dragons watching her from the snow-blanketed meadow, to the insects beneath the soil. She learned the language of the earth, learned how to speak it, beg for it to bend to her will. She learned how to call upon fire, set it to burn or watch it dance. Wind rushed to her upon summons, encircling her, lifting her, strengthening her. Water rushed for her, froze for her, took up any form of itself upon her request. 

She practiced this new magic constantly, stopping only when fatigue wrought her to the ground. More often than not, Asteria would find her asleep on the snow, the Horntail and Lykopis curled beside her, but quickly learned to leave her be, for if she woke, the whole process would start over again. The muscle mass she’d lost during her time amongst the trees returned as she held the elements in place, as she used them all at once. Sacrifice was no longer needed, but the work it took to summon and control the elements took enormous tolls on her body. Soon, her shoulders became thick and sculpted again, her arms toned and lethal. Her legs had retained the conditioning during her sprints after prey with Lykopis, and held her body easily.

It didn’t take long before Asteria approached her and told her she was ready to find Kingsley. With a charm around her ankle, and a match about the wolf’s neck, she set off without fear of losing her guide. In a Way-House, she met Kingsley with the wolf at her side. His eyes widened in surprise and soul-wrenching fear, and he stumbled in his haste to escape her reach.

He quickly recovered, however, and shook off the shock. “I heard the rumors. You should be dead.” He stated simply.

“Yes, I should be.” She paused and drew a small breath. “I was.” Her voice was empty, her expression just as blank as she began building her defense. “But I’m not. I wish to place myself solely at the Order’s dispense. I want to destroy those who wrought this upon me.”

Kingsley seemed perturbed by the suggestion. “How are you, Fleur?”

The Veela rolled her shoulders. “I fucking died, Kingsley. I was dead. I can’t speak her name, but her voice is the loudest thing inside my head. I became an animal. I lost my humanity. I didn’t know what the bloody stars were!” she snarled. “I’m fuller of bloodlust and thirst than I ever have been. Either give me a job to do, or I’ll walk out and become a fucking mercenary on my own.”

Kinsley blinked, and drew a breath. “Very well, Ms. Delacour, as you wish it.” He shuffled around the room for a moment and drew a few papers. “Have you visited Canada, Fleur?” The Veela nodded. “Good. Apparate there and find this place. A Way-House has been set up there and will serve as your first post. We’ll be speaking again soon.” She took the papers, wove her fingers into Lykopis’s fur before she turned swiftly, and met the cold arctic air of Nova Scotia. Glancing down at the papers, she began searching for the place called Frobisher Bay.


	20. Be Silent in that Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves!!! Little thing to note, the Army has placed me in Arizona, and my time is even more limited, so updates might become slightly sporadic, but pray, stick with me!!! Now this next little bit is rather long, and we start to see the dark Fleur I warned you about before. So have fun with that XD. Also, the time frames may be a little confusing, and I do apologize for that. If anyone needs deeper explanation or has a suggestion to make it clearer, don't be shy and call me out. Anyways, thank you to everyone who's dropped in. I truly love and appreciate you all. Hope you enjoy this one!!!  
> Much love,  
> Regina  
> Chapter title from Spirits of the Dead

Harry and Hermione found answers in Rita’s book that both enraged them, and set them to ponder. Dumbledore had been good friends with Grindlewald in his youth, the Darkest wizard before Voldemort took his fame. He’d supported reigning over Muggles with magic. In Rita’s pages, a picture of Dumbledore was painted in a light that neither of them had ever expected. Hermione argued that he’d changed, that he persecuted Grindlewald and put him in his own prison, that he’d fought against inequality between Muggle-borns and wizards, and even house-elves when she brought the issue to his attention. Harry protested, unconvinced, and she watched as his faith in their headmaster crumbled.

She gave up the argument and turned their attention to moving their camp to a new location. Three days after moving to the Forests of Dean, neither of them had slept much. As a result, Hermione had gladly taken Harry’s offer to sit up and keep watch for a few hours while she closed her eyes for a few minutes. However, this night was much the same as the others, and she only managed two hours’ rest before her eyes opened on their own accord. She tried her hardest to return to sleep, but it would not humor her desperate calls. Instead, she turned under her blankets, and curled in on herself, shaking for warmth.

Inevitably, her thoughts turned to Fleur. She hoped the Veela was fairing well enough. Still half-convinced she was going to perish at any moment, she longed to see the stars and draw comfort from their setting, but the night was dark, cold, and cloudy, and gave her no chance to study the sky.

Finally, she gave up, and went to the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. She called for Harry, who gave no answer. She shrugged it off for the moment. He’d taken to having time to himself as of late, and she could hardly blame him. He lamented the loss of so many things, if not as part of a coping mechanism, then surely to simply remember them. He held his broken wand in the pouch around his neck, and felt its loss keenly, she was sure. The holly and phoenix wand had withstood so much, saved his life countless times, had saved her own, in fact. Even the lioness grieved for it, for the idea that a wand meant life and death in the present time.

Halfway through her second cup, she ventured outside the tent again. Snow had begun to fall, and Harry still did not answer her summons. Deeply concerned, she searched for him in the limits of their wards. He wasn’t within their bounds.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Had he left? Had he decided that he could not bear such a task assigned to him? If so, why had he taken her wand? Her wand…

Her hand clenched. She ached for the familiar texture of vinewood, yearned for its strength and comfort. More than that, she longed for Harry’s physical form to reappear, his voice to comfort her and promise her that she wasn’t alone, she wasn’t defenseless, that her wand was safe and strong, that he hadn’t given up on the fight, that one day, she wouldn’t have hide for bearing magic in Muggle’s blood.

Panic bubbled inside her, and spilled out.

What if she was alone? What if she’d lost the very last things she had left: her brother and her wand? What if she was left forever, in the middle of the forest without a clue as to where the Horcrux is or how to destroy it, without knowing where the one chosen to finish it all had gone? What if what surrounded her would be all that was left? The wards would weaken over time, fall in on themselves. Without her wand, she couldn’t cast magic. She couldn’t rebuild them, she couldn’t go somewhere safe, she couldn’t hope to find her Veela.

Without her wand, her intellect was almost completely rendered useless. Without her wand, her head was full of meaninglessness, meager facts and practice that could no longer be put to use, wasted time and space.

Her breath came shallow, forcing itself through her lips, dragging over them. She paced for ten minutes, trying desperately to calm, but to no avail. She was curled on the floor, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t really hearing snow crunching underfoot, that such a thing was impossible.

When Harry peeked through the door, she’d nearly passed out. Chemicals warred for dominance in both her bloodstream and her brain; relief and happiness collided with anxiety and fear. She took him into her arms and squeezed the air from his lungs, condemning him for the worry he’d brought her. He apologized sheepishly, and told her someone was with him.

Ron entered behind Harry, looking fearful.

Hermione lunged at him upon seeing his pale, apprehensive face. She struck every inch of him she could reach before Harry all but dragged her off him, using every ounce of strength available to him to do so. Ron stood wiping the blood from his chin, while Harry held her at arm’s length.

“Harry.” She said, her voice low, all struggle completely ceased.

“Yes?” he whispered, acutely aware of the rigid quality of her body.

“Where is my wand?”

He looked deeply frightened at the question.

“Harry Potter. _Where is my wand?”_

“Hermione listen—” Ron began.

“You don’t _dare_ tell me what to do!” her voice grew louder, leaping from her throat. The struggle picked up again, and Harry was unable to restrain her, but she did not attempt another punch. Instead, she took a step towards him, her finger jabbing the air in front of her and her eyes had locked him in their stare, unblinking as her voice tore at him. 

“Weeks, it’s been weeks, and we could have been dead for all you knew, and—” she was knocked backwards as Harry cast a Shield Charm to halt her advance on Ron. She bore her teeth sat heavily into the armchair.

“I knew you weren’t dead!” Ron protested at last. “Harry’s been all over the _Prophet_ and the radio, tons of mental stories, but if you’d died I would have known! You don’t know what it’s been like—”

“What it’s been like for you?” she screamed, leaning forward in her chair. “Wearing the Horcrux for twelve bloody hours straight, being attacked by a snake in a fucking dead woman’s body, learning that Dumbledore had been best mates with Grindlewald, trying unravel this damn mystery from cryptic riddles and runes? Tell me, Ron, how was it for _you?”_

“I walked right into a bunch of Snatchers as soon as I’d left.” He said, not bothering to fight her ire or listen to her tirade. He knew he deserved it, knew it would come, and had already steeled himself to face it.

“Snatchers?” Harry asked, while Hermione fumed behind him, ashamed of her instant interest at the sounding of the word.

“Yeah, they’re everywhere—gangs trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I might of school age; they got really excited and thought I was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged off to the Ministry.”

“What did you say to them?”

“Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of.”

“And they believed you?”

“They weren’t the brightest. One of them was part troll by the smell off him… anyway, they had a row about whether or not I was really Stan or not. It was pathetic, really, but there were five of them, and they’d taken my wand. Then, two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted, I punched the only holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke with mine, and Disapparated. I didn’t do it so well, Splinched myself again”—he held up his hand to show two missing fingernails; Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly—“and I came out a few miles from where you were. By the time I got back were we’d been…you’d gone.”

“Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione said in a lofty, dangerous voice. “You must have been terrified. Meanwhile, we went to Godric’s Hollow and, let’s think, what happened there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know-Who’s snake turned up, nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know-Fucking-Who arrived himself and missed us by about three bloody seconds.”

“What?” Ron said, incredulous as he gaped between the two.

“Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly. “Ron just saved my life.”

She pretended as though she had not heard.

“One thing I would like to know, is how exactly you found us tonight? That’s important. Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.”

Ron glared daggers at her, then pulled a small silver object from his pocket. “This.”

“The Deluminator?” she asked despite herself.

“It doesn’t just turn lights on and off. I don’t know how it works, or why it happened then and not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since. But while I was at Bill’s, I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard… I heard you.” He said, looking dead at Hermione. “Your voice came out of this.”

“And what exactly did I say?” she asked, her voice torn between skepticism and curiosity.

 “My name. And, something about a wand…”

Harry remembered the occurrence easily. It was the first time either of them had said his name aloud, when they discussed the possibility of Harry’s broken wand ever being the same again.

“So I took it out,” Ron continued. “And it didn’t seem different or anything, so I clicked it, and the light went out in my room, but another light appeared outside the window. It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like that light you get around a Portkey, you know?”

The other two nodded.

“I knew this was it, so I grabbed my rucksack and followed it. It bobbed towards me, and went inside me, right here.” He pointed to his chest.

“Sorry?” Harry said, sure he’d heard wrong.

“It sort of floated next to me, then just went straight through me. And once it was inside me, I knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated, and came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere…”

“We were there,” said Hermione. “We spent two nights there, and I could swear I heard someone prowling and yelling the second night.”

“Yeah, well, that was me. Your protective spells work, by the way. I couldn’t hear or see you at all. I was sure you were around, though, so in the end, I got in my sleeping bag, and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d have to show yourselves when you packed up the tent.”

“We used the Cloak, just in case,” Harry murmured. “I trusted Hermione’s ears.”

“Well, I stayed on the hill all day. I kept hoping you’d appear. When it started to get dark, I knew I’d missed you, so I clicked the Deluminator again and I arrived here in the woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.”

“Doe?” Hermione repeated. “What doe?”

“Someone sent a Patronus,” Harry explained. “I followed it into the forest, and it led me to a frozen—over pool. Gryffindor’s sword was in it, at the bottom, and I had to break the ice and jump in for it. When I did, the Horcrux tightened around my neck, and Ron saw the whole thing, and waited for me to come up. When I didn’t, he dove in, got me, then went back for the sword. We found a flattish rock, and he stabbed it.”

“Just like that?” she asked.

“It screamed a lot,” Ron admitted. “Told me all about how I’ve always been second-best to Harry. Showed me Mum taking Harry over me as a son…” he trailed off.

“And it was over?”

“Yeah. Here,” he dug through his pocket and retrieved the locket. She passed it between her fingers, the ruined and splintered emerald catching on her skin a few times. Finally feeling that it was safe to, Harry removed the Shield charm between them.

“Did you say you got away from the Snatchers with an extra wand?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh—yeah, I thought we could use an extra, just in case.”

“You were right,” Harry said, holding out his hand. “Mine’s broken.”

“You’re kidding?” Ron said, but Hermione had gotten to her feet again.

“Should you ever choose to leave us again for whatever ridiculous reason, do not think for a moment I will be half as merciful as I have been tonight.” she intoned, staring into his very soul. He gently fingered his bruising jaw, and nodded wordlessly. With that, feeling more thoroughly exhausted than she had in ages, she lifted her blankets, and curled on her side.

He traded a look with Harry and sighed.

“I reckon she’ll be quite upset with me for a while, eh? I’m not going to pretend I don’t deserve it, though…”

Harry motioned for them to go outside, and Ron followed with haste. “You said that if we were dead you would have heard? How?”

“There’s a radio show, the only one that doesn’t follow the Ministry’s lies. _Potterwatch,_ it’s called. It tells everything the way it is…” his smile slipped off his face, and crumpled in.

“What? What is it?”

“Well, it…” his voice dropped lower, barely a whisper. “It tells us who’s died… and, well…” he looked back to the tent, terrified that Hermione would be standing outside with them.

“No…” Harry murmured.

“Yeah…” he said, relieved that Harry seemed to understand. “Yaxley found her out in the woods…” untrusting, he drew closer, his lips right beside Harry’s ear. “Said she burst into feathers. They left her there, mate. Just, left.”

Harry sank to the ground.

“No, it can’t be true…” he breathed, his eyes filling.

Ron joined him, an arm over his shoulder. He drew shuddering breaths with him, shaking his head.

Harry couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t allow himself to. The proud, strong Veela that had taught him about dragons and love, the blonde, blue-clad witch that had made Hermione so happy… All he could think of was those bright, laughing eyes as blue gazed into hazel, as firelight danced merrily in their depths as the sea crashed behind them. Fleur had been a good friend to him, one who would be sorely missed. But to take Hermione with her, without so much as a chance, when he needed her so much just to win this war…

Desperate, he threw his eyes to the sky. He did not know enough about the constellations, much less about the Veela stars, to draw comfort from their positioning, but he did recall the memory of Hermione tracing them.

 _There, Harry, right there!_ she’d said excitedly, just the night before, her finger jabbing at the sky. _That’s hers! It… it doesn’t look particularly healthy, but it’s still intact! It’s still reaching for mine…_

“She’s not dead.” Harry said stiffly. “She can’t be. Hermione just saw their stars last night.”

Ron shook his head. “I hope for all our skins she’s right.”

Harry allowed a long moment of silence before he lifted his voice again. “Is there any good news?”

His companion considered quietly for a moment. “Oh! Lupin and Tonks are doing really well. I think what you did in number twelve was right thing, now, Harry. They expect her to deliver before summer breaks.”

Harry breathed a long sigh. “Thank God. They deserve some happiness. Someone does.”

 

* * *  


 

_Cold is the Arctic Sea._

_Far, are your arms from me,_

_Long will this winter be,_

_Frozen in Frobisher Bay._

_“One more whale!” our captain cried._

_“One more whale then we’ll beat the ice!”_

_But the winter star was in the sky._

_The seas were rough,_

_The winds were high._

_And cold is the Arctic Sea,_

_Far, are your arms from me,_

_Long will this winter be,_

_Frozen in Frobisher Bay._

_Deep were the crashing waves,_

_That tore our whaler’s mast away,_

_And dark are these sunless days,_

_Waiting for the ice to break._

_And cold is the Arctic Sea._

_Far are your arms from me,_

_Long will this winter be,_

_Frozen in Frobisher Bay._

_Strange is the whaler’s fate,_

_To be saved from the raging waves,_

_Only to waste away,_

_Frozen in this lonely grave._

_And cold is the Arctic Sea._

_Far are your arms from me,_

_Long will this winter be,_

_Frozen in Frobisher Bay._

_Frozen in Frobisher Bay._

 

The song ran through Fleur’s head constantly. It was sang by the fishermen at the docks, by the women in the villages, the children in the streets. And it fit with a perfect, icy, painful beauty. She was indeed stuck here. She was frozen in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, though now she hardly cared. She spoke not a word to anyone other than the owners of the Way-House in which she stayed for the time, while she hunted down Death Eaters.

A handful had taken up posts in the area around Frobisher Bay. Several had already died by an unheard, unseen phantom.

She didn’t bother asking forgiveness for death she’d wrought. In fact, she relished it. While her own people were being hunted in the Wizarding world, while Muggles and Muggle-borns were hiding and deemed undesirable, she was fighting back. Truly fighting back. She delivered what they wrought. She gave back what they took. Once upon a time, she’d looked down at her hands in horror, bloodstained after the infiltration at Hogwarts where she lived up to her promise to Harry. Now, it was not a blemish, not a stain. It was a badge, a proud achievement, a token of her efforts and her stand against that evil.

She scanned the sea, humming softly to herself. Even now, as she stood looking out over the arctic sea, waiting for her prey, the song reverberated in her head. No matter how many days passed, her pain never receded, and the irony of the folksong struck her each time.

The she-wolf growled lowly at her side, and nosed her gently. Fleur turned her head, and through the fibers of fur along her parka, saw the object of her current mission. The last one before she could leave this frozen hellhole and its horribly accurate songs behind.

Yaxley entered a building a short distance away from her. The Veela lifted her nose and searched the wind. With a wave of her hand, the wind picked up, and brought the unmistakable stink of the Death Eater to her. Firewhiskey was on his breath, and she sighed in irritation. An inhibited target. Why didn’t he think of her? Why didn’t he give their phantom a fight, instead of drinking his defenses down?

Of course, Yaxley was a large man. Perhaps he hadn’t had enough to inhibit him so horribly. She desperately hoped he was at least smart enough for that. Out of all the others, Yaxley was the one she’d saved for last. His comrades had fallen around him, their bodies burned, frozen, horribly broken and hurled to the highest reaches of the towers he guarded. Surely he knew he was next. Surely he’d already sent word.

The Veela and she-wolf approached with silence. The house in which he sat had been abruptly vacated, the Muggle wife and husband who lived there before were found dead several towns over, no doubt by his hand. The Muggles, she’d learned, had been the parents of a Mudblooded son. Of the son, she knew nothing.

She committed every detail of the house to memory, filing it away to lament after she completed her work. As she approached the house, under the cover of heavy snowfall, the squat little building disappeared from view. The disguise, however, had nothing to do with the precipitation.  

 _How cute,_ she thought maliciously.

The wards built were weak, fragile, unpracticed, for predators rarely needed to practice their defenses. Unfortunately for him, he’d just recently been dislodged from the top of the food chain, and had had little time to polish his skills. As the wind picked up, the wards wavered with it, allowing her to catch glimpses of the house as they did. She scoffed inwardly. Carelessly, she outstretched a hand and touched the dome. At once, Yaxley burst outside, his wand raised, yelling obscenities as he tried to find the culprit. Another wave of her hand, and the snow intensified. Little shards of ice attacked the Death Eater, forcing him back into the house as it blinded him.

Fleur fell into her well-worn mask of focus and stealth. She raised her hand and easily broke the wards, and all but kicked in the front door. Yaxley was waiting for her.

“You?” he whispered, choked. “You’re supposed to be dead!” he shouted.

She stood in the doorway, snow and ice flying around her. “Perhaps I am,” she returned. “Perhaps Death has made me a reaper, and sent me to collect the empty shell of your soul.” She took a step forward.

He retreated, his whole body shaking as the cold poured in around her. He sent a curse to her. It was easily deflected with a wave of her hand.

“You can’t run from death, Yaxley. You can’t defeat it.” The she-wolf growled lowly at her side, and entered the house without fear. She stalked around him, and took a stance behind him, her fur bristled dangerously.

He made a move to twist his body. Her hand responded readily. Wind took his balance and sent him sprawling to the floor, his wand rolling away from his hand.

She rolled her eyes, and waved her hand again. “Pick up your wand, Yaxley.” She snarled. “Give me a fight.”

“He’ll come for you!” he shouted, his voice shrill. “He’ll come and he’ll destroy the whole fucking town!”

“Oh, of course, how rude of me.” Fleur muttered. “I should have thought to call him myself. Oh, come on out little Voldy! Here, darling! Voldemort! Don’t you want to see the fun I’ve had?”

The Dark Lord arrived when the Snatchers sent did not return.

He found an abandoned, dismembered house in the middle of nowhere, nothing to see but snow and ice for miles around. Inside the house, bodies were strewn about carelessly. Each and every person he’d sent to the house was dead on the floor. Despicable. Pathetic. Some bore deep gashes and wounds that looked to be from an animal. Some had been burned, other had large pieces of ice lodged within their chests, others still looked to have suffocated.

“The phantom,” he sneered, looking at the bodies. No remorse or sadness touched his heart. Only disgust in their weakness, in their failure to serve him. He kicked a body aside and exited, looking out at the bleak, frozen land. “Phantom!” he called. “I know you watch from your high towers! I know you guard this place! Be warned, your magic, your prowess is nothing compared to mine! My followers have not a shadow on my ability! You may vanquish them, but you cannot harm me! No one can.”

An answer never came, but the snowstorm roared as ice pelted him. He scowled deeply, and Disapparated.

 

Kingsley was furious.

“Just what the bloody hell were you thinking?!” he thundered, pacing the floor.

The Veela sat calmly in an armchair in the Way-House, looking through the window at the sea.

“You told me to kill. I killed.”

“I didn’t tell you to ring a fucking dinner bell for him!” Fleur’s eyes snapped up, and locked on him, slivers of cobalt visible between her lashes.

“No innocents were harmed. Protective measures have been taken to the fullest extent. They will remain upright until I break them down, or die first.”

“That’s not the point, Fleur,” Kingsley said, softer now. He drew a breath and ran a hand over his face. “You are by far our most valued member. You are priceless to the Order and to the Wizarding world, if it is destined to return to peace. More than that, you are tied to one of the most important people of all the world, Magic and Muggle, to the brains behind Harry’s operation.” The Veela growled lowly at the woman’s mention. “If you fall, she will as well, correct?”

Fleur didn’t humor him with an answer.

He sucked in a deep breath. “I have a new assignment for you.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You need rest, Fleur. After a time, I’ll call for you again, put you back out there, but until I do, you will watch over Shell Cottage. You’ll rest within its walls. You’ll escort those, should any come to you, to safety. Do you understand?”

“I don’t need rest.” She muttered.

“I don’t care. You’re getting it. You’ve taken out two dozen Death Eaters. You’ve saved countless lives. Even chivalry needs rest.”

“Suppose I fight you?”

“I suppose I’ll die,” Kingsley returned with a shrug. “But you know as well as I do that we can’t afford any loss. And you also know how important it is to follow orders. More than orders, the Death Eaters are becoming increasingly wary about their phantom. Keep a low profile for a while, they’ll begin to get careless again. Until then, rest.”

“You think me unstable?” she asked, glancing back out the window.

“Not yet, no. But that could change. Just last year, Fleur Delacour would have fought tooth and nail to prove she wasn’t. But you don’t.”

Fleur lifted a shoulder. “That’s because Fleur Delacour cared. She’s dead now.”

“All the more reason to give yourself rest. Those who are dead rest, Fleur.”

Wordlessly, the Veela mulled over it. She’d trapped herself, she realized. The Veela rose from the armchair, and paced the room, collecting what little she had.

“You’re agreeing?” Kingsley asked, watching her closely.

“I can’t argue with logic. Seems to be the _stable_ thing to do, anyway.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” she returned, shoving the last of her belongings into a canvas bag. On one knee, she stooped to the wolf, and slipped the charm over her head. The gem glimmered faintly against her dark mantle, glowing as Fleur’s did where it was hidden beneath her jeans. “Just Apparate us.”

“I can’t do that,” Kingsley replied, shaking his head. “The house has been heavily safeguarded. The only ones who can enter is the owner, and the caster of the wards in place there.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Bill Weasley is waiting for you downstairs.”

In a past life, Fleur would have jumped at the opportunity to see her friend. Now, she only nodded, and followed Kingsley down. When she took in the form of the tall, scarred, red-haired man, her heart lurched in her chest, and actually startled her. Bill smiled and opened her arms to her, but the wolf at her side growled lowly in return. Fleur reached a hand out towards the wolf, and apologized softly to Bill, though she did not accept his embrace.

Kingsley accompanied the three to the cottage, where Fleur instantly set to building her own wards. While the blonde was outside, Bill and Kingsley watched as they melded and strengthened those already in place.

“How is she?” Bill asked softly, lest she hear.

Kingsley sighed heavily. “Alive. There’s not much else to say, other than that. She’s distant, quiet, but she’s lethal. Her soul is…pure, now. A full Veela’s. Asteria taught her beyond her previous limitations. She controls the elements now, hell, even minds. Veela Occlumency is something I’ve never seen before. She completely broke her first target’s mind. He was the only one she left alive, the only word he spoke was ‘phantom.’ He died three days after the others found him.”

“Dear God…” Bill murmured. “And everyone thinks she’s dead?”

“Yaxley bragged about killing her. Found her in the forest, cursed her. She sprouted feathers. He thought it meant she was close to dying. She lost consciousness instead.”

“And now Yaxley’s dead?”

“Yaxley, Dolohov and Nott are all dead at her hand.”

“Lieutenants?!” he asked, choked of breath.

“Lieutenants,” Kingsley confirmed. 

Bill shivered. She’d been so gentle when they’d first met, so full of life and love. She was a shell now. Empty. His heart filled with sorrow for his friend.

“What about Hermione?” he asked, his voice even lower.

“Don’t mention her.” Kingsley said shortly. They were silent for a time until Kingsley lifted his voice again. “She hardly eats, hardly speaks. I only tell you this because it may seem like she’s not even here. She’s very skilled at hiding herself.”

“What about the wolf?”

Kingsley shrugged. “Been with her since she came out of the forest. Said she was a guide. Asteria’s reckoning, I imagine. Should you need anything, call. I’ll send word for her in a few weeks.”

Bill nodded, and Kingsley Apparated away just as Fleur entered the house. Bill smiled kindly at her, and gestured to a pot on the stove.

“Stew’ll be ready in a bit. I’ve cleaned out your bedroom, up the stairs and to the right. Make yourselves at home,” he said, nodding to the wolf. Lykopis sniffed at the air, her tail wagging slightly. Fleur nodded, and followed his instructions, the she-wolf at her side, despite the tempting smells in the kitchen.

She closed the door behind her and scrutinized her surroundings. Bill had given up the master bedroom, leaving it as clean and untouched as a guestroom. She almost smiled. She almost cried. Instead, she allowed herself a grimace. Bill hadn’t changed at all; he was still the same selfless ox of a man as she knew in Gringotts. What had she ever done to deserve his friendship, his allegiance, his hospitality? She found she could not recall.

Sitting down at the foot of the bed, she drew a deep breath as weights settled on her shoulders. Perhaps Kingsley was right. Maybe she did need rest. Bill was a gentle person with a quiet nature. Surely he’d understand her need for such things, especially in the time to follow.

From her perch, she could see the sea from the west window. White-capped waves lapped against the shore, the sun already surrendered to winter’s long nights. While she’d been casting her own wards, she’d noticed shells adorned the walls of the cottage, and saw now that someone had meticulously continued the motif inside the bedroom, along the windowsill and crumbling wainscoting. It was a rather handsome room, in need of attention, it was true, but had promising potential. Like her.

“I could heal here,” she whispered softly. The she-wolf bumped her nose against the Veela’s leg. Until now, she’d never admitted to being broken. Perhaps that was the first step. She put the thought out of her mind for the moment. She would return to them, reluctantly, but still felt far too fragile to handle such ominous internal battles.

Instead, she scratched at the wolf’s fur, and decided she needed a distraction. During her time in Canada, her time had been used to hunt down her targets, memorize their schedules, and bring them down. It left little time for anything else.

Now, she rifled through the bookshelf in the corner. Novels, reference, poetry, and magical texts were all crammed into its shelves, creaking as she pulled one from its grasp. She set it gingerly on the bed, and arranged her clothes neatly in the wardrobe, before she returned to it and settled with it on her lap. Soon, she was obvlious to her surroundings, hardly aware that she was reading at all as the words took shape, color, texture and depth in her head.

A knocking at the door broke her wall of concentration and with her assent, Bill poked his head into the room.

“Soup’s on,” he said softly.

Fleur chanced a glance to the window. Stars dotted the field of black, and the waves glinted dully. She nodded silently to Bill, marked her page, and rose. Bill left the room wordlessly, and closed the door behind him. She didn’t want to go downstairs immediately. Instead, she went to the window, and pressed her forehead against the glass. She counted the waves for a few moments where they stood at a stalemate with the shore, desperately straining to reach further.

Her breath fogged the glass upon a heavy exhale. The she-wolf pressed against her side and looked out the window with her, trying to see what held her attention so keenly. After a moment of seeing nothing of interest, she whined softly and nudged the Veela with her nose.   

“I know,” she murmured. Steeling herself, she led the way downstairs.

Bill had already spooned out a bowl for her and the wolf. Glasses of water were waiting beside them, and Bill himself was busy cutting a loaf of bread.

“We can eat in the parlor, if you like,” Bill spoke softly, as if to avoid startling her. “More comfortable there, anyway. I really need to fix that table,” he said with a chuckle.

Gratefully, she took the bowls in her hands and set the water to levitate after her wordlessly. Bill took the armchair, leaving Fleur the whole sofa. It was moth-eaten and threadbare, but comfortable. The second bowl on the floor, the she-wolf took to it hungrily, while Fleur tucked her feet under her and tentatively lifted her spoon.

She ate slowly, savoring the hot burn of pepper at the back of her throat. Despite her enjoyment of the dish, she found she could only stomach half of it, still somewhat unused to normal eating habits. The wolf was happy to ensure that no food was wasted.

“I hope that was all right,” Bill murmured, finishing his own bowl.

“It was great, actually, Bill. I just, I’m not used to eating so much,” she said softly.

Bill nodded and silence folded over them for a moment. “What’s her name?” he asked quietly, nodding at the wolf.

“Lykopis,” Fleur said softly.

“She’s beautiful. Where’d you meet her?”

Fleur nearly cracked a smile. It was just _so_ like Bill to give human qualities to a wolf she’d just brought in without question or concern. “In the forest. She was an orphaned pup, and I took her in.”

“Kingsley said something about a guide?”

Fleur’s eyebrows lifted and fell within the span of a second. “Something like that. I’ve come to think of her more as the bit of myself that I lost.”

Bill bit his lip, praying he hadn’t struck a nerve. “Well, Lyko is welcome here, as long as you stay. I hope that didn’t worry you,”

“Of course not, and I must thank you, Bill. I, I really do appreciate your hospitality.”

“It’s nothing, Fleur, really. I’m quite happy to see you, actually. It’s quite lonely here,” he sighed. “But, please, take your time. Don’t rush into anything, even if it’s just polite conversation. I… I can’t imagine…”

Fleur stiffened instantly, but nodded. “Thank you, Bill.”

He nodded, the line drawn burning his toes. “Go on up and have a hot shower, yeah? I’ll clean up,”

The Veela protested, but was waved away with insistence, and despite her longing to help, her need to seclude herself won the battle. She hid herself away in her bedroom, and returned to the book she’d left.

She spent several weeks in the solitude of Shell Cottage until Kingsley called for her to return the second week of February. There, she continued her dismemberment of the Death Eaters gathered with all the grace of Death himself. She returned to Shell Cottage when her targets were abolished, and thusly fell into a routine of danger and safety, of anxiety and rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features the song Frozen in Frobisher Bay by James Gordon. I sang this piece my senior year in high school, and it struck inspiration in me to write this bit of plot. All credit goes to Mr. Gordon and the composer of the arrangement that originally inspired this chapter.
> 
> This is the closest I can find to what we performed, since I sang with an all women's choir. I found a better video than what was here before, for those of you who listened to the first one. Tempo is on point, and this ensemble is just incredible.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=heeudtltvnY  
> 


	21. And the Silken, Sad, Uncertain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE CONTINUING  
> There is mention of sexual abuse in this chapter. It is NOT graphic, and only when Bellatrix is torturing Hermione in Malfoy Manor. Rape is NOT present here (Bellatrix grinds herself on Hermione and that's the extent of it) but I implore you to proceed with caution, especially if this is a trigger for you. 
> 
> Hello, darlings! Back again, and holy God, we are so close to wrapping this adventure up. Like, hot damn. This chapter is long, pretty much every chapter after this is long, but hey, no rest for the wicked. Anyways, I'll leave you all with a cliffhanger, and I'm not at all sorry! Things are really heating up, and I hope you have fun on this little coaster. Extra hugs and kisses and love to my beat, faewolf. Please hit me up with what you think, and thank you so much for reading!!!  
> Much love,  
> Regina  
> Chapter title from Poe's 'The Raven'

Hermione ran in a wide circle, chanting concealment spells as she did. Blood flowed from her veins as she offered sacrifice, and as the Veela wards wrapped themselves around the three. The lioness was panting, covered from head to toe in white dust, while Harry lay, near unconscious on the ground and Ron shouting obscenities of Xenophilius Lovegood.

“That treacherous old bleeder!” he roared, throwing the Cloak off himself. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!”

The lioness acted as though she had not heard him, and continued her chants of spells and prayers. With a final swish of her wand, the wound at her wrist closed seamlessly. “I _told_ him that was a bloody Erumpent horn…” she mumbled. “Now his house has been blown apart!”

“Serves him right!” Ron scoffed, examining the cuts in his jeans and legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?”

Hermione fell to her backside in the grass, slightly lightheaded from the blood she’d given. “I hope they don’t kill him… that’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a good look at Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t lied.”

“Why hide me, though?” Ron asked, folding the Cloak.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergoit, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”

“But what about _your_ mum and dad?”

Hermione stiffened at once. “They’re in Australia. They don’t remember anything, and if they don’t know anything, they’re safe.”

“You’re a genius, Hermione.” Ron repeated. Ever since his return, he'd be appealing to Hermione, trying to make it seem like everything was back to normal. Even though she'd accepted him back, something still lay broken, incapable of repair, and she knew, deep in her soul, that she would never trust him again, despite his return. Such an act was unforgettable, though she had forgiven him. She, though she had an inkling Harry felt the same, would never look at him with a sense of loyalty ever again, but they both knew they couldn't stand to completely lose him, in spite of his cowardice. Ron himself seemed to recognize that his place among them had been profoundly altered, but it didn't stop him from trying to worm his way back into that place.  

“A martyr, more like,” Harry murmured, finally sitting upright as he broke Hermione's thoughts. “I don’t know what we’d do without you,”

Hermione flushed lightly, but quickly turned her thoughts to a larger issue. “What about Luna?”

“Well,” Harry started. “If they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive—” 

“I hope so…” Ron murmured softly.

“She’ll be in Azkaban, then, won’t she?”

“She’s tough,” Hermione said softly. “Tougher than she looks. I’ll bet she’s teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”

“I hope you’re right.” Harry said. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if—”

“If he hadn’t just tried to sell us out to the Death Eaters, yeah,” Ron scoffed.

Hermione got to her feet and led the other two inside, where Ron brewed tea, and she and Harry discussed the issue of the possibility of a stone returned the dead to life and the last name of ‘Peverell.’

Harry focused on a spot on the far wall of canvas, his face uncharacteristically blank. After sever long, silent moments, the words “Marvolo Gaunt!” rang from his mouth like an answer to all their questions.

“What does he have to do with this, Harry?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.

“ _Marvolo Gaunt!_ You-Know-Who’s grandfather! In the Pensieve! With Dumbledore! Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!” he stood, and began pacing, his eyes locked on the floor. “The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it! I saw him waving it in some bloke from the Ministry’s face, nearly shoved it up his nose!”

“The Peverell coat of arms?” Hermione repeated. “Could you see what it looked like?”

“Not really,” Harry murmured, squinting as he tried to recall the memory. “There was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it up close after it had been cracked open.”

“Blimey… you reckon it was the sign again?” Ron asked “The sign of the Hallows?”

“Why not?” said Harry excitedly. “Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant old git who lived like a pig and only cared about his ancestry. If that ring had been passed down through the centuries, he might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that house, and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy tales to his kids. He’d have loved to think the scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made you practically royal.”

“Yes…” Hermione began, her native skepticism creeping into her words. “That’s all very interesting, but Harry, if you’re thinking what I think you’re think—”

“Well, why not?” said Harry, abandoning caution. “It was a stone, wasn’t it?” he glanced at Ron for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”

Ron’s mouth was hanging open. “Blimey—but would it still work if Dumbledore broke—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Hermione said, exasperated. “This is a _fairy tale._ Not real, solid fact. It never worked, Ron, it never existed—” 

“What about the Cloak, Hermione?” Harry bit. “The look on your face when Xenophilius talked about other cloaks with charms on them would eventually become opaque, and when you thought of mine. Mine’s always kept us invisible, and we’ve never so much as muttered a spell!”

“Harry, I’m just trying to be realistic, so we don’t start a wild-goose chase and end up wasting time over nonexistent objects—”

“Where do you think it is now?” Ron asked Harry, trying to quell an impending argument. “What do you think Dumbledore did with it after he broke it?”

Harry’s face lapsed into complete concentration again, and Hermione’s calls of his name fell to deaf ears. He’d pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and was busily running his hands over the material, lost in thought.

“Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents died!” he shouted suddenly. Color flooded his face, but he did not so much as flinch at the notion. “My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the Cloak! This is why! He wanted to examine it, because he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is buried in Godric’s Hollow…” his pacing picked up speed. “He’s my ancestor! I’m descended from the third brother! It all makes sense!”

Hermione studied him. “Harry,” she began, but Harry had pulled the pouch from around his neck and thrust a piece of paper into her hands.

“Read it. Read it! Dumbledore had the Cloak, Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn’t need a Cloak, he could perform a Disillusionment charm so powerful that he made himself completely invisible without one!”

Something else fell to the floor and rolled away, glittering. He stooped to retrieve it, and hit his head in his haste to stand upright again. Wihtout sparing a thought to the blossoming pain, he shouted, “IT’S IN HERE! He left me the ring—it’s in the Snitch!”

“You—you reckon?”

He looked at Ron strangely, as if he could not understand his lack of comprehension. Thoughts whirled around his mind, and suddenly, the color, excitement and happiness drained from his features.

“That’s what he’s after.” He said quietly.

Hermione, who had been readying a retort, faltered at this new, serious tone his voice had adopted.

“You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wand.”

He turned his back on the lioness and stared outside into the night, and silence fell over them. She desperately wished she were better practiced in Occlumency to better share his thoughts, to see as he saw, to bring light into the clouded perspective of his foolish beliefs about a wand, a rock, and a travelling cloak. Instead, she read the letter in her hands, and looked back up at Harry. Perhaps she was the one being foolish. But that was impossible. This story was as likely to have truth in it as a story about two children, a trail of crumbs, and a cannibalistic witch living in a gingerbread house.  

“This is it,” Harry said, turning back into the tent. “This explains everything. The Deathly Hallows are real, and I have one, maybe two—” he held up the Snitch. “—and You-Know-Who’s chasing the third, but he doesn’t realize… he just thinks it’s a powerful wand—”

“Harry,” said Hermione, moving across to him and returning Lilly’s letter. “I’m sorry, but I still think you’ve got this all wrong.”

“But don’t you see? It all fits. If Dumbledore knew about them, and he thought it was a Quest, he’d have to let me figure it out on my own anyway, and he did that a lot to begin with. He let me take risks, try my strength. This feels like something he would do.”

“Harry, this isn’t a game!” Hermione screeched. “This isn’t practice! Dumbledore left you a very real and very dangerous task with very clear instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes! We can’t afford to get sidetracked when people are falling like flies and being hunted like rabbits!”

He appealed to Ron without offering rebuke. “You believe this, don’t you?”

Ron bit his lip. “I mean… bits of it sort of fit together,” he began awkwardly. “I dunno, maybe we should just focus on the Horcruxes for now, mate…”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, relieved. “I’ll take the first watch.” She seated herself just outside the tent entrance, and Harry went to his bunk, his head still whirling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fleur sighed heavily as she returned to Shell Cottage. That last one had been one hell of a job. She brushed off her jeans and knelt down before Lyko as she drew the charm over her head. The garnet glinted dully in the dim light, and she stowed it away in her pocket safely. The wolf whined softly and rubbed her head against her chest. Fleur looped an arm over her neck, fingers diving into coarse, warm fur.

It had been hell, all right. Eight more bodies to be burned or buried. Eight more flashes of fire and wind, eight more minds torn asunder, ripped from any form of reality, and tossed carelessly into oblivion and insanity. What she had become nearly frightened her. What she turned into when faced with enemies actually did strike fear into her. Never in her most vivid nightmares had she imagined she could be so ruthless, so willing to tear limb from limb and mind from body. She had known, of course, that her people had never been particularly docile or gentle in battle. She had not known she could be this fierce. When she made that promise to Harry Potter on the bank of Black Lake, she had not known the oath would be fulfilled with such horrendous acts of violence and terror.

Every empty space in her body had been filled with a thirst. Every emotion had been replaced with it. She no longer felt a need for love and affection. She drew comfort only from the she-wolf in front of her, she that took prey down with her, she who never faltered in her loyalty.

Fleur had not spoken Hermione’s name since entering the forest. She did her best not to think about it. Never once had she mapped the stars in hope to find their constellation, for she was terrified and enraged by the possibility offered. She hoped, in the deepest reaches of her soul, that she would never see the woman again. She wondered, sometimes after waking from dreams of her, what she would do if she did. The options varied from incredibly shameful, to incredibly atrocious. Every defense she’d built could crumble. Every defense she’d built could stand strong, and treat the woman with a hard, cold indifference. She could run away upon seeing a single wave of bushy brunette hair. She could freeze and watch with the stillness of an ice sculpture. She could revert to the primal Veela again and either attack, or die. She could find herself a puppet on strings, her actions bent to the woman’s will and wish.

Lyko whined again, and Fleur stood sharply. Inside, Bill was kindling the fire and looked up upon her entrance. His smile fell off his face when he truly took in her features. She was wan, drawn, at war in her own mind. Silently, he nodded, and without raising her voice, the Veela stalked past him and into her bedroom.

 

Later that night, Fleur sat in the sitting room of Shell Cottage. Her stomach coiled emptily against Bill’s generous attempts at feeding her, as he did every time she returned, but even as hunger gnawed at her she couldn’t accept nourishment. She’d known a more gripping hunger, of course. And silence. She’d know a far deeper silence than the one that currently permeated the house. She had been forced to go for weeks without a proper meal, with only the ebony she-wolf at her side and unable to speak her language. The large, black head rose up from the floor where she la; amber eyes wearily examining the Veela as though she had heard her thoughts.

From across the small house, she heard Bill fumbling with the kettle and the stove. Her ears twitched slightly at the sound, but her eyes remained locked on the window; its curtains tightly closed against the night but Fleur stared beyond them to what she knew would lead to the garden and sea. Her lips twitched as she heard Bill curse loudly, apparently having burned himself with boiling water.

The she-wolf, hearing this, sniffed tentatively before allowing her head to sink back to rest on her paws, eyes still watching the Veela. Fleur pulled herself from her trance as Bill entered the room, a tray of tea and biscuits in hand, which he offered to her. She hesitantly took a steaming cup, and a biscuit, which triggered a flare of hope in Bill that she might eat. This hope died instantly as she fed it to the wolf at her feet. She drank the hot tea black, shivering slightly as its scalding heat tore her throat and the bitter taste exploded on her tongue. Bill, like the wolf, regarded her carefully before finally giving voice to his thoughts. This was nothing new, of course. After each and every mission, she always came back the same empty shell. He’d fought Kingsley tooth and nail, begged Fleur to resist his summons and rest for a while longer, to give herself more time to heal. The Veela nodded to acknowledge that she’d heard him, but hadn’t commented, nor acted as he advised.

Each and every time, she returned to the cottage half-starved, but refused to eat. It seemed like every mission reminded her Hermione, and sent her back to the starting position. Each time, she returned cold, silent, sometimes not speaking a single word for days after. And each and every time, Bill urged her to eat, to take care of herself, to resist the temptation of the next target.

“I really wish you would eat something…” a heavy sigh followed; the sound low and grumbled.

“I can’t.”

Excitement flashed across Bill’s face at the sound of her voice, no matter how low and soft it carried. He jumped on the chance and continued, a little too hastily. “She’d want you to eat, though. You’re wearing away into skin and bones.” Fleur did not respond, but finished her tea in a second scalding gulp.

“That’s what I became anyway, when she left.” There was no trace of resentment in her voice, only a hollow, ringing sorrow.

“She didn’t want you in danger or trouble…” Bill said softly. “She did it to protect you.”

 _I could have protected her more than she herself._ She thought, but did not lift her voice again. Bill seemed to recognize defeat, and turned to tinker with the radio instead. The static that emitted told there was nothing of great importance to chance a report. Fleur returned to her previous task of staring at the somber purple curtain.

“You missed the latest broadcast,” Bill murmured, switching the wireless off. “Did you know they’re calling you the ‘Phantom?’”

“No,” she returned softly.

“Quite the name, I think. Fits well.” He sighed. “They don’t have a clue it’s you.”

“They think I’m dead.”

Bill sighed heavily. “You know, Fleur, have you thought about visiting Tonks? I’m sure she could use your help. Getting pretty big, from what Lupin’s told me.”

Something jumped inside her. Tonks. Her old friend, from before she’d befriended Bill, before she joined the Order, now expecting new life and hope. A child. A clean slate. A new chance. She should be happy for her friend, should share in this joy. Considering silently, she contemplated the curtain before her.

“I think that might be a good idea.” She murmured at last.

Bill brightened instantly. “Excellent! I’ll give Remus a shout, let him know. Kingsley too, he’ll want to know the Phantom will be under careful protection.” He winked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione stared up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, her nose buried in the blue Beauxbaton’s shirt. She sighed heavily. Would it ever get easier?

The answer to such a redundant question reverberated through every fiber of her being. No. No, it would never get easier. She’d lost half of her own soul. The better half. She’d given it up willingly with the hope to protect it, to keep it safe. How much good had that done?

She couldn’t say. Though half of her soul did not reside in a Horcrux, nor was it borne from an act of horrible violence, she had committed a great and unforgivable sin all the same. It was a sacrifice, one that Veela herself accepted, blessed, and measured, but she knew she was not alone in bearing the pain. Fleur was alive, she knew. The stars confirmed that. But her stars were no longer reaching for her own. Instead, they seemed to curl in on themselves, turn their backs.

She hated herself more than she ever had before. The Veela, that gorgeous blonde witch, with a heart as pure as water and a mind as vast as the sky, was no more. Without ever having seen her, the lioness knew she’d changed, hardened. Veela had told her she would.

Oh, and how she longed to be the one who’d hardened instead! Fleur, for as strong as she was, had been gentle and soft. Distinctly, Hermione remembered waking up next to her in the cottage, every line of her body pressed to Fleur as her arms held her from behind. As she peppered her bare shoulder with kisses, long blonde hair blinding the lioness as the Veela moved slowly, gently, her lips feather-brushes over her skin, not in the hope to disturb or wake her, but only to worship her. She remembered long, slender fingers counting her goose bumps and freckles. She remembered the bright, white smile as she turned in her arms, burrowing into the blonde’s chest and neck, and that deep, contented sigh as she held her closer, the shivers that raced through her body at the brush of skin against warm, bare skin.

Every morning had been celebrated by the same ritual of kisses and laughter, reveling in the love and happiness they had discovered in each other.

Would they ever share another beautiful morning? Would she ever wake, blinded, by blonde tresses? Would shining blue eyes worship her very image, thanking her for gracing their own optic nerves with a glimpse?

Very keenly, she remembered how Fleur’s gaze praised her in ways her hands could not. She remembered how each time she so much as looked at the blonde, her eyes sang in joy and jubilation, like she had been blind, and Hermione was the first, and only beautiful thing to look at. So intense her study had been, her gaze itself had manifested a phantom physical touch.

A deep sigh filled her chest as she turned to her side. How desperately she missed Fleur. How different could their situation have turned out if she were there to help them? How much safer, or more dangerous, perhaps, would they be?

At least she’d be with her. At least her soul would be whole.

“Hermione!” Ron called excitedly, shattering any focus she had. _“Potterwatch_ is on! The password was ‘Albus,’ I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s on! Come and listen!”

She stood at once. Perhaps the broadcast would shed some light on what was happening in the outside world, perhaps it’d help motivate Harry to forget about the Hallows and focus on the Horcruxes.

In the parlor, the three huddled around the little wireless, just as the voice of Lee Jordan was imploring them to dedicate a moment of silence to those who’d fallen during the week, among them Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the countless, unknown Muggles.

“Thank you,” Lee said after a moment. “And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

“Thank you, River,” a deep voice rumbled.

“Kingsley,” Ron murmured, explaining how they all used codenames on the air.

“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

“Excellent advice, Royal,” Lee said. “Now, sources inform me that there is a witch or wizard currently hunting Death Eaters down themselves. What do you know, or rather, what can you tell us about that, Royal?”

“There is indeed one who is hunting the Death Eaters,” Kingsley replied. “I myself work very closely with them, but it is best if we keep such a person in as much mystery as we can, so for the added protection of this person, I will use both male and female pronouns. The Death Eaters are calling him the Phantom, for he leaves no trace behind, no trail to follow, and only bodies.”

“The Phantom, eh? And how many kills has the Phantom made?”

“So far, thirty-eight.”

Lee whistled softly. “I’d like to personally thank this Phantom myself. Thirty-eight, you said?”

“Yes, indeed, River.”

“And it’s just one Phantom?”

“There is only one, but she does have an accomplice of sorts. A wolf follows her, kills with her, disappears with her. Not that the Phantom truly needs an accomplice to kill, I assure you, he could manage fine on his own.”

“Can you give us an example of what this Phantom has done?”

“Well, in Canada, she killed nine Death Eaters in one town, and actually lured You-Know-Who out herself, after killing the Snatchers sent to collect the one who’d uttered his name. He did not kill, nor did he find the Phantom, nor the Muggle town the Phantom protected. Instead, the whole town had been made invisible by the Phantom herself and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named never had any idea,” Kingsley continued. “The town is still under supervision and protection, although the Phantom has since scored more kills, and secured more towns throughout the North American continent, as well as Europe.”

“Ah,” Lee sighed. “What else can you tell us of this Phantom?”

“His style and magic are like none other ever seen.” Kingsley said. “Never once have I encountered a witch or wizard with the ability to control the elements using their hands alone until the Phantom.”

“Elemental magic? Without a wand?”

“Without wand and without word,” Kingsley returned. Hermione paled, her breathing stopped. _Impossible…_ “The Phantom is highly skilled and isn’t a force to be reckoned with.”

“Excellent news, Royal, we greatly appreciate your words of comfort and assurance that we are fighting back. And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature of ‘Pals of Potter.’”

“Thanks, River,” came the familiar voice of Remus Lupin.

“Romulus, do you maintain that Harry Potter is still alive?”

“I do,” Lupin said firmly. “There is no doubt that at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if that had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”

“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he were listening?”

“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

Hermione softly repeated the words, looking at Harry.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Ron asked suddenly. “When I went to Bill’s, he told me that Lupin’s living with Tonks again! Apparently she’s getting pretty big, too…”

“And now,” Lee’s voice continued. “I’d like to introduce a new correspondent, Rapier. Could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”

“Yes, River, I can,” came Fred’s jeering voice. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”

“Which suits him, of course,” Kingsley said. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”

“Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s _basilisk,_ listeners. One simple test: check whether the thing glaring at you has legs or not. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s probably the last thing you’ll ever do anyway.”

“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” Lee asked.

“Well, who won’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?”

“Don’t be mistaken,” Kingsley spoke up. “The Phantom is driving him abroad too. After killing his Death Eaters and his Snatchers, when no one returns, he goes to look himself. No one has ever seen the Phantom and survived. There was one, however, that was allowed to live, but his mind was in tatters, and the only thing he said was the word ‘phantom,’ which earned the name. He died three days later. However, I know myself that his various holidays are not always due to the Phantom’s dismantling of his regime.”

“Right you are, Royal,” Fred returned. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains that he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. The Phantom can’t protect everyone, and I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”

“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” said Lee. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of _Potterwatch._ We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can rest assured that we will be back. Keep twiddling those dials: the next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe, and good night.”

Static issued from the speakers and the lights went out. Ron rapped his wand against it once, and the static stopped. “Good, eh?” he asked.

“Brilliant.” Harry returned.

“That’s so brave of them…” Hermione murmured.

“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” Ron said. “Like us.”

“But did you hear what Fred said?” Harry asked excitedly. “He’s abroad! He’s looking for the Wand! I knew it!”

“Harry, you heard the talk about the Phantom—”

“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—”

“HARRY, NO!”

“—demort’s after the Elder Wand!”

“The name’s Taboo!” Ron screeched, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside. “I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore—we’ve got to put up protection around us quickly—that’s how they find—”

 “There’s not a Death Eater stake-out in this area,” came an excited voice. “The Phantom wouldn’t have called, he’s not killed in a day or so. It wasn’t him. We know you’re there!” the voice said, louder now. “You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”

Hermione responded with a quick flick of her wrist, and pain blossomed over Harry’s face. She was kicked to the ground by an unseen assailant, her chance to defend herself sacrificed in favor of disfiguring Harry. She struggled under the weight on top of her, and froze as a wheezing voice choked out.

“Delicious girl… what a treat. I do enjoy the softness of the skin…” she was harshly rolled over, and came face-to-face with Fenrir Greyback. “Oh, what is this? The little Mudblooded Veela whore who tried and failed to kill me last year? What a treat indeed.”

“Leave her alone!” Ron yelled. The unmistakable sound of fist on flesh sounded, and Ron grunted as air rushed from his lungs. Greyback ignored him.

“I’m not the Mudblood Granger,” Hermione spat, her voice surprising both Harry and Ron. “My name is Penelope Clearwater.”

Greyback’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at her. “You look a lot like that sniveling bitch.”

“A horrible downfall of mine, then.”

“What’s your blood status?”

“Half-blood.”

“Easy enough to check,” another voice grunted.

Greyback studied her for a moment longer before turning to Harry. 

 “Let’s see who else we’ve got.” He rolled Harry onto his back and barked a laugh. “I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?”

Harry did not respond immediately.

“I _said,”_ repeated Greyback, slapping Harry across his swollen face. “What happened to you?”

“Stung,” Harry muttered. “Been stung.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” said another voice.

“Look, I think we need to get on out of here before—”

“Your bloody Phantom’s not showing up!” Greyback yelled. “What’s your name?” he snarled, looking down at Harry.

“Dudley,”

“And your first name?”

“Vernon. Vernon Dudley.”

“Check the list, Scabior,” said Greyback, advancing to Ron. “And what about you, Ginger?”

“Stan Shunpike,” said Ron.

“Like ‘ell you are!” Scabior shouted. “We know Stan Shunpike, ‘e’s put a bit of work our way.”

Another thud sounded from Ron.

“I’b Bardy,” Ron forced out, his mouth full of blood. “Bardy Weadley.”

“A Weasley?” rasped Greyback. “Related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood.”

“The ‘ole lot of ‘em look to be ‘Ogwarts age—”

“We’b lebt.” Said Ron.

“Left, have you, ginger?” Greyback asked. “And you decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”

“Nod a laugh. Aggiden.”

“Accident?” jeering laughter came from the repetition. 

“You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley?” Greyback growled. “The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

“Doh.”

“Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked down that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the other two prisoners!”   

 Upon being tied to the others, whom she had not heard nor saw, Hermione reported, as quietly as she could, that her wand had been taken.

“I’m so sorry, I said the name, I should have listened—”

“Harry?” a voice whispered from behind them.

_“Dean?”_

“It _is_ you! If they find out who they’ve got—”

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback said, while more crashes sounded from inside the tent. “One Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and three truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?”

“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ‘ere, Greyback.”

“Interesting.” Greyback murmured, crouching down beside Harry. Hermione nearly recoiled from his stench. “So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on the list under a different name? What House were you in at Hogwarts?”

“Slytherin.”

“Funny how they think we want to hear that,” Scabior laughed. “But none of ‘em can tell us where the common room is.”

“It’s in the dungeons,” Harry said clearly. “You enter through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and it’s under the lake, so the light’s all green.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, well, looks like we have caught a little Slytherin. Lucky for you, Vernon, ‘cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s your father?”

“He works at the Ministry. Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You know what, Greyback,” said Scabior. “I think there is a Dudley in there.”

“Well,” Greyback murmured, contemplating the ridicule he’d face for attacking and binding the son of a Ministry official. “If you’re telling the truth, ugly, a little trip to the Ministry shouldn’t scare you, then. I expect your father will reward us just for picking you up.”

“Hey!” came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at this!”

In the man’s hand, a silver, ruby-encrusted sword was raised. Greyback eyes it with approval.

 _“Very_ nice, this. Looks to be goblin-made. Very nice indeed. Where did you get something like this?”

“My father. We borrowed it to cut firewood—”

“’Ang on a minute! Look at this, in the _Prophet!”_

_“’Ermione Granger, the Mudblood known to be traveling with ‘Arry Potter.’”_

Greyback turned back to Hermione. “That picture looks a lot like you.”

Hermione snorted, though Harry could smell her fear. “So I’ve been told. Horrible thing for me. Perhaps I should cut my hair.”

Greyback, still half-cautious, turned to Harry. “What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked as he pressed his fingers to Harry’s scar. He gave a loud yell of pain at the touch.

The werewolf’s eyes widened, his breath came shallow. “I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” Greyback breathed.

“I found glasses!” Scabior shouted, and shoved the glasses onto Harry’s face.

“It is!” rasped Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!”

Harry seemed to slump against Hermione’s side, only to perk up again periodically, like he was trying in vain to remain upright and conscious. She vainly wished he wasn’t fighting to keep his mind his own, desperately hoped that Voldemort wouldn’t burst from the shadows at any moment.

“No!” Greyback shouted, arguing with the other Snatchers. “If we take them to the Ministry, then we won’t get any credit. We’ll take them to the Dark Lord himself.”

“You’ll call him here?”

“I—no. They say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as base. We’ll take them there.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She couldn’t stay away, even though Tonks had given her a marvelous distraction for a short time. Barely two days had passed, and she was out in the field again, bodies littered the ground around her. Forty-two. She’d killed forty-two people in five months.

And she couldn’t stop.

What did that make her? Ruthless, yes. Suicidal, possibly. Sick? She didn’t feel sick. She didn’t feel anything. But at least she was _doing_ something. If not outside, if not here, if not hunting, she was forced into her own mind. Deal with what surfaced from her subconscious. Deal with her demons. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to know how she felt beneath the hard, new exterior she’d forged from ruthlessness and murder and bitter indifference, what she’d forged from utter emptiness and the loss of half her soul.

It was no excuse, she knew. But why did those who fought for innocence always leave with guilt weighing down their souls, while the enemy killed without thought or repentance?

Another target. Another meticulous plan, far more organized than her own inner mind. Could one become psycho- or sociopathic? Could she embody the traits of both? The sociopath’s meticulous, compulsive planning, and the psychopath’s reckless need to flaunt their ability to kill, their willingness, to dangle it before the most deadly threat’s nose?

Surely she possessed both traits. She certainly acted like she did. But why? Was she just that desperate to fight, to uphold her oath to Harry? Was she so far gone, she didn’t care if Death waited with baited breath for her next move and she was simply rushing to meet him? If so, he should already know she wouldn’t go without a fight. As willing for death as she might be, she wouldn’t simply offer her neck.

Another swirl of fire and wind, and another body lay dead at her feet. Without hesitation, she uttered the Dark Lord’s name.

 

* * *

 

Hermione lay, pinned to the floor by an invisible spell, Bellatrix Lestrange’s face hovering over her own. Her breath hung thick in her nostrils, the stench almost overpowering with every breath she drew. Hermione’s true identity had been found out with Harry’s, and if it hadn’t been for Bellatrix’s sick enjoyment of her pain, Voldemort would have been called, and the three of them would be dead for sure. Instead, she held the lioness down, her weight hard and unyielding on top of her as she asked, again, how they came to possess the sword of Gryffindor.

“I told you I don’t—” a strong spell set every nerve on fire as a scream cut off her sentence. She arched off the floor, although the assaulting magic did not give nor recede. The very air around her seemed to turn to water as she inhaled, burning her lungs and catching in her throat.

Bellatrix lifted her curse, an evil glint in her eye as she stared down at the lioness, where she lay panting, crying, under her. She drew a knife from her belt, and held it over Hermione’s arm, the point pressing against her skin. Again, she asked about the sword. She received the same answer.

The knife burned as it tore through her skin, carving out a hateful message. Blood seeped from the wounds and left sticky trails along Hermione’s skin and puddles on the floor beneath her. Panting, the lioness again met Bellatrix’s hard, unwavering stare, and repeated that she knew nothing of Gryffindor’s sword. The witch atop her drew back, and slapped her, the butt of the knife catching her jaw as it passed.

“You know, we found your poor little mutt.” She whispered, running a hand over Hermione’s cheek, smearing blood from a wound there before her nails bit into the soft flesh. “She was out in the woods, naked, all alone. She looked rough, dirty, like the animal she is.” She lowered her lips to Hermione’s ear, pleased when the girl stopped breathing. “Do you know what we did to her?”

Hermione’s chest caved in. “No—no! You couldn’t have! She—”

Bellatrix laughed, the sound loud and roaring in her ear as the weight on top of her jostled. She began to move, grinding herself against Hermione, adding sexual humiliation and abuse to her own euphoria. “Ah! No, darling, we didn’t kill her. We just helped her along,” she cackled, her teeth closing around the soft, sensitive skin of Hermione’s cheek. Her bite left deep imprints and bright blue bruises behind, before she leaned away from Hermione’s face, laughter still playing on her features as she rocked harder. “And how she screamed like a child! Oh, I wish you could have seen it! Perhaps you can… I got this from Yaxley, you see,” with a great swish of her wand, a vision played in her head.

_Fleur lay on the ground, curled in a ball, sobbing as her clawed hands moved to cover her ears._

_“Isn’t that interesting?” a voice mused. “Hermione…” the Veela screamed, and curled in tighter on herself._

_“What shall we do with her? Kill her?”_

_“Oh, no, we can’t help her die, can we? It’d be favor... and we do not perform favors to half-breeds, do we?”_

_“No, of course not.”_

_“You’ll do well to remember that._ Crucio.”

Just as the curse had torn Fleur apart, it bit into Hermione as well. She felt her mind give way, as Bellatrix entered, as she saw the lengths she had taken to protect her dearest beloved, but even in her weakened state, Hermione kept the Veela’s secrets far from her prying, grimy reach. The memory continued, as she writhed under the force of the spell.

_Fleur was panting, shaking as sweat dripped from her body. The curse was uttered again from five separate tongues. She screamed, the sound ripping through her throat as it poured out of her very soul. This torture lasted so long, she lost any hold of time. Her hands abandoned her ears, and clawed at the earth, digging deep trenches into it as she writhed on the ground. Her muscles rippled as she shook, standing out in stark contrast to the rest of her body. Her skin flushed darkly, and gooseflesh rose._

_“What’s happening to her?” asked a scared, shaking voice._

_“She—she’s reverting. Yes, when they’re nearly ready to die, they revert back to their primitive forms. It won’t be much longer, now.”_

_The curse was shouted again, and long, blue plumes burst forth with splashes of blood. The feathers were raised defensively, but before she could brandish any weapon, the curses surged forth again, and wrought her to the ground until she’d stopped drawing breath._

Hermione resurfaced from the memory with sobs racking her body, and Bellatrix cackling over her, one hand tangled in her hair, exposing the tender flesh of her throat.

“You see?” she laughed. “Your poor, filthy, half-breed is dead! Your dearest, darling Fleur is _dead!”_ Just as Fleur had done, at the sound of the other’s name, Hermione broke. She screamed her pain, lost any pretense of control or rebellion, became deaf to Bellatrix’s questions or insults, to Ron and Harry’s desperate cries of her name from the dungeon below. She no longer felt the weight of the witch over her, the constant thrust of her hips, her harsh teeth marking her. She no longer heard her vicious laughter, Greyback’s requests for her, her own sobbing. All air had been taken from her lungs, all blood from her body. She lay, gasping, sobbing, wrenching.

 She was unaware as Bellatrix’s weight left her body, as her wand made a final slash at her neck, as blood spilled out of her, as Harry and Ron began dueling the Death Eaters. She didn’t hear Harry’s vicious shout, or the creaking of the chandelier above her as the chain swung and gave way, didn’t see as it crashed down over her, raining wax and crystal. She only saw the blonde Veela, for whom she’d give anything, for whom she held the deepest love, dead on the ground.

 _You killed her,_ her subconscious whispered. _She’s dead, and now you’ll never get the chance to say I’m sorry. She’s dead, and now you’ll never know her love, or any love, again._


	22. In the Monarch Thought's Dominion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loves, it's nearly impossible to stay away. I promised you a chapter this week, and with the next one in need of revising, I thought it best to get this out of the way so I can focus on it more in the coming days. I would like to thank all of you for dropping by and leaving a note, they were incredible and made me wiggle a lot. Now, the romance has returned a bit, but it will come back in full with the next chapter. I can't wait to hear from you all again, and please, take this chapter as the first stitch in my mission to give your hearts back.   
> All my love,   
> Regina  
> Chapter title from 'The Haunted Palace'

Fleur sighed heavily as she landed on the back doorstep of Shell Cottage. There was no contrast of dawn to breach the darkness of the sky. The moon was absent and even if it did shine, the abundance of clouds would surely hold her light at bay. The Veela's clothes were torn and bloodied, her hair messy and in need of a good wash. As per usual, she took a few minutes outside to prepare herself before facing Bill and all his innocence. She felt like a soiled, blemished sinner in the presence of a saint. Never once in all her memory had he ever committed a wrongdoing. Even when her own acts should be looked down on from a high pedestal, he looked at her as an equal. He cared deeply for her, perhaps because he still believed that the young, bright-eyed Veela-girl he’d befriended still dwelt somewhere underneath.

She drew a deep breath and took the charm from Lyko’s neck, as was ritual when returning home. The wolf nuzzled her gently, and together they went inside. The moment she passed through the threshold, she knew something was wrong. A particular scent crossed her nostrils, and sent her hair bristling. With a sharp twist of her body, she slammed Harry Potter against a wall of the kitchen, her hand curled around his throat, while Lyko pinned Ronald Weasley under her, her teeth bared and inches from his throat.  

“State your names!” she boomed, bearing her teeth, her eyes locked on Harry’s.

“Harry Potter,” the wizard under her hand croaked out, his eyes wide as he looked back into striking blue eyes.

“Ron Weasley,” Ron whimpered from under Lyko’s jaws.

 “What form does Harry Potter’s Patronus take?” she thundered, before she ask herself why they were still alive.

“A stag,” Harry managed, shell-shocked.

She balked for a moment, surprised. Perhaps this was actually Harry Potter. No imposter could have ever made it through her wards. But, no gentle magic could either, and for all Harry's feats, he was not fierce enough to take down her bounds. She drew a deep breath, and found in the very deepest reaches of her memory the scent confirmed him. Her heart ached suddenly, a great thumping bumped her ribs, and words spilled from her lips.

“And what of Hermione Granger?” Fleur nearly choked on the girl’s name as it caught in her throat. Why should she care where she was? Why should she spare the woman another thought or moment of pain? Something in her recoiled at such harsh thoughts, while others snarled at that weak notion. 

“She went to the Yule Ball with Fleur Delacour, and she accepted your partnership the same night.” Ron answered shakily.

“And she’s very sorry she never said goodbye.” Harry finished, his face ashen.

“What on earth is going—” Bill began, thumping to a stop in the kitchen. He was pale, and his shirt was splattered with dark red. “Fleur… I sent my Patronus…”

The Veela had frozen. Another scent tore into her awareness, one without a name, and had all but disappeared from memory.

“Fleur,” Bill said softly, inching towards her, his hands raised. “It’s okay. Just let him go, call Lyko off, and I can explain everything.”

Fleur did not loosen her grip, staring at Bill with slitted pupils. “She’s here.”

“Yes,” Bill admitted, slowly outstretching a hand. “She is here. And she’s horribly wounded.”

Fleur released Harry and sank to the floor. Lyko, upon seeing her, left Ron, and curled protectively around her. The Veela rested her head on her knees as she resisted the urge to rock, unsure of whether she wanted to cry or scream. She’d have to face her demons now. She couldn’t hide from them any longer. What would she do? Instinct deserted her. The one thing she’d felt was solid in her tumbling, chaotic world had fled, and left her to rock back and forth in uncertainty as she finally gave in to the urge. She wanted to flee with it. She wanted to stay. She wanted run upstairs and heal the woman who’d taken her heart. She wanted to deal more wounds. She wanted to destroy the forces that had harmed her. She wanted to thank them. She wanted to wake up from this hellish limbo of a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. Her knees throbbed from where she’d hit the floor. Bill’s arm was heavy and warm around her shoulder, just as Lykopis was solid beside her. But _what would she do?_

Harry coughed, his body still pressed to the wall although Fleur no longer held him there. Ron slowly rose up from the floor, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“Fleur?” Harry began, desperately searching the Veela’s eyes. “I’m so terribly sorry… we—Dobby—Bellatrix…” he cut himself off and drew a deep breath. “We can’t leave yet. She… she hasn’t woken up.”

The Veela moved with an ancient, fluid grace. She was on her feet before any one of them could protest, breathe, or even feel fear stirring. “Where is she?” She asked softly. 

Bill studied her demeanor before answering. “The smallest bedroom. I wasn’t expect—”

But the Veela had gone. She was already up the stairs and in the bedroom before she could chastise herself. Hermione’s scent burned in her nostrils even as they flared to take it in. What had been mere memory was almost lost under layers of sweat, blood, and fear that had soaked the lioness to the bone, wrought by Bellatrix. Beneath the blankets, Hermione lay in an unconscious heap, her breathing shallow. Although her eyes were open, Fleur did not see her. The mane of auburn hair removed itself from her receiving eyes, just as the room itself blurred into meaningless color. With a wave of her hand, she lifted the whole bundle into the air, and wordlessly carried her into the master bedroom. The door opened unassisted, the curtains closed on their own accord and the blankets pulled themselves back to accept the burden Fleur carried without touching.

But Fleur hadn’t a use for the bed yet. Instead, the lioness hovered over the mattress and blankets, suspended by invisible arms that held her at length. Lyko whined softly from beside the Veela, who hadn’t been aware of her presence earlier, but welcomed it nonetheless. Still blind, unseeing Hermione before her, Fleur lifted a hand, and the blanket swaddling her, as well as her clothes, fell to the floor. 

Unseeing, unfeeling, she mapped Hermione’s body. Bill had begun to heal her, but evidently had been interrupted by her arrival downstairs, and in any case, he wasn’t as practiced in the healing arts as she was. Several ribs were fractured, one threatened a lung. Blood gathered in deep bruises along her sides and back, one covered her eye in an ugly mask. Lacerations crisscrossed over her skin in an undeniably purposeful manner.

These healed easily at the Veela’s command. A half-healed wound at her throat, dangerously close to the jugular, oozed blood, but Fleur was persistent in her desire to heal the lioness, though she couldn't fathom why, as all thought had ceased. A clot had already formed, despite the massive amount of blood welling from it, and with a rather harsh incantation, the clot gave, and the tissues joined together again. Gentle urgings from her magic looped around broken bone and pulled them into their places again as a soft warmth enveloped the break and healed it. Bill had already taken large, jagged pieces of glass from her wounds, but now, smaller shards unburied themselves, both from the untouched wounds, and those Bill had started to work on. They gathered together and settled in a pile on the bedside table, and occasionally, more shards joins their ranks as Fleur continued. The lacerations reached out across their voids, tissues and flesh joining together as blood replenished the starved areas. The hemorrhages beneath her skin were quickly repaired as blood was taken, and relocated rather than left to swell and compress.

One wound refused to heal. Carved in Hermione’s forearm, in the human trademark of scarlet blood, rested a single word. _Mudblood._

She bore her teeth as she stared down at the wound though the wound itself was still blurred by her vision. Hermione’s blood, as it continued to surface, was just as crimson as any pureblood’s would have been. There was no trace of dirt or taint, no evidence that she was born and raised by any form of savage but kind, strong people. The snarl deepened as her eyes narrowed. Against every healing spell she knew, the wound refused to close.

Wordlessly, she left the room. Silently, she stole back outside, where Harry was busy at work, hand-digging Dobby’s grave, where Bill, Ron and Dean helped him. Fleur approached him carefully, ignorant of the other three, and drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss, Harry.” He pretended not to notice her. “I apologize for my actions earlier as well. I have not been myself in months.” He paused, and turned to look at her momentarily.

“How is she?” He asked suddenly.

“She’s—” Fleur stopped, gritting her teeth. “She’s alive.” She took a breath, as the words themselves still drew daggers though her. “She bears a cursed wound. I need the weapon that dealt the wound.” Harry wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, streaking it with dirt.

“That silver knife,” he gestured to a blade covered in blood. “It carved that word and killed Dobby.” A strange, bewildered expression swept over his face, but he said nothing else.

Fleur picked up the knife and drew a breath. She began her return to the cottage, but stopped mid-step and looked to the grave. “Thank you, Dobby, for your sacrifice. May rest find you well and hold you warmly.” Again, she climbed the stairs and entered her room, Hermione still hovering over the bed. She rinsed the blood from the knife and took her place at Hermione’s side, her fingers curled around the knife.

  _How many sacrifices will I give this woman?_

Without searching for an answer, Fleur dragged the knife over her forearm. Blood surged forth, but did not spill onto the bed or the floor. Instead, it lifted up, and dug greedily into Hermione’s wound. It fought the curse, and upon Fleur pressing the wounds together, won. The curse hissed as it came into contact with the Veela’s blood, and died against its wrath. The wound itself was just as reluctant to leave its canvas even as it burned into Fleur’s arm. The pain was blinding as though hornets’ stings carved the word, and as the pain slowly subsided, the word was now written in the Veela’s forearm. As she studied the wound, she found that it had healed slightly during the process, no doubt credited to her Veela heritage, and found that the last remnants of Hermione’s wound were small, pink lines across her flesh.  

Without any form of expression betraying her inward thought, she dressed the lioness again in her own clothes. There was a time when the sight of Hermione in her night shirts filled her heart with warmth and joy, but she did not spare a glance. She continued to see without seeing as she lowered the lioness to the bed, and covered her with the blankets. Just as expressionless, she saw to the old wandmaker, the wounded goblin, and the slight, gray-eyed girl that now occupied what had been her safe haven.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione slept for hours. When she woke, a scream catching in her throat.

“You okay?” Harry’s voice whispered through the darkness.  

An enormous sigh left Hermione’s lips, and she thanked every god it had only been a nightmare. “Yes, I’m okay.” She struggled to sit up, and found incredible pain by doing so. Harry’s steady hands gently pressed her back down again, arranging her pillows about her body. She strained to make out his face in the dim light, but only managed a faint silhouette.

“Don’t move, ‘Mione. You’ve been through hell.”

“What? I don’t understand… Where are we?” Memories lapped at the edge of her conscious like waves at high tide, but she pushed against them, anything but willing to face them again. But they were persistent if nothing else, and the cruel, cackling face of her tormentor surfaced. “Bellatrix…” her breathing came shallow as the floodgate opened, as memories poured in, as tears poured down her face.

_Fleur is dead._

No, no, _no, impossible._ The stars said—but they lie! Little balls of fire and ice and gas and—how could they possibly know? How could they have the audacity—but what if—

Harry was at her side, his scent familiar and comforting to her as he whispered softly. “We’re okay, she’s not here. You’re safe. I’m with you, and we’re safe.” For several long minutes, Harry rocked the lioness gently, unwilling to risk upsetting her wounds more than her rapid breaths already had. Finally, she asked where they were again, after the panic subsided and left her shivering, wrenching with pain each time. “We’re… in a place called Shell Cottage.”

“Where Ron went when—for Christmas. Bill’s here?” she asked, her breathing still slightly uneven.

 “It’s actually Between House of the Order.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, and a stabbing pain brought them back down as the bruised muscle protested. “The Order? Who all’s here?”

Harry fell silent, his mouth agape in hesitation until he bit down on his lip. Hermione took a breath to sigh, but as she did, a particular scent washed through her senses. It was a stronger, wilder scent than the one she’d been breathing for so many nights when she’d had her face pressed into a certain shirt, but a match for the same being. Her earlier internal quarrel died, and a sick, hollow feeling washed though her.

“Fleur.” The name rolled from her tongue as gently as a tear would run down a cheek. It was soft, gentle, filled with fear, but with a greater longing. An anxiety attack began to curl in her chest, the previous panic rushed back tenfold. “Will she come in?” Hermione’s whisper barely reached the human octave. She knew it was selfish, knew the Veela would likely refuse, but she had to try, had to know for certain she was still alive, even if she'd changed, even if she didn't love her anymore. Harry rose wordlessly, kissed her forehead, and exited the room.

When the blonde entered, it was with silence. The she-wolf insisted upon following her, and her claws on the wooden floor gave her presence away. She lifted a hand and a single candle lit itself by Hermione's bedside, startling the younger witch.

“Fleur.” The name left with more conviction this time, and with a tone of awe. Her eyes were wide as they drank the Veela in, starved of her image. She had changed. She was harder, thinner, paler than she remembered. Her face was blank, her eyes absent. Though her shoulders were held back for sake of posture, it was not longer pride that kept them stiff. The Veela gently stood by Hermione's bedside, looking down at her with an unreadable expression, as if she couldn’t truly see her. The lioness looked away in shame.

“You’re—you’re alive.”

The Veela didn’t humor her with a response for several long, silent moments. “I wasn’t always.”

“What do you mean?”

Again, the Veela was silent for a time. “I died.”

Hermione’s breath hitched in her chest as she turned her eyes back. “Fleur, I—”

“Don’t say my name.”

The words were rushed, clipped, harsh. They poured from the Veela’s mouth without malice, but they certainly weren’t gentle. Hermione shuddered, squeezing her eyes closed. 

“I thought I would know what to say…” she whispered after a long silence. “But I don’t. I can’t apologize for what I’ve done... I can’t make this right,” Tears were in her voice and flooding her eyes but she dare not stop. Through her tears, she saw that the Veela studied her, but still held that faraway, foggy glaze to her eye. “I wanted to protect you, because everyone who is in league with me is a threat and therefore must be dead! I couldn’t bear the fact that I would have been the reason you were killed, if you had been, and if you were dead, I would be as well, within the hour! I had to do whatever I could, and that was my only option!” She had begun sobbing now, and the Veela lay down beside her, taking the young witch into her arms as gently as she could, again, without knowing why. The pain was excruciating, but the Gryffindor set her teeth against it and burrowed into the warmth and protection offered to her. She took enormous breaths of air, filling her soul with Fleur’s scent so that she wouldn’t forget it again. She clung to the collar of her shirt with one hand and grasped a tress of blonde hair in the other. Fleur was cold and indifferent under her, her embrace measured and restricted, but the lioness took everything she could get.

“You need to stop crying,” she whispered, her voice as blank as her eyes. “Your ribs were broken. They’re newly healed, but you could still hurt them.” The lioness put forth great effort, but her tears would not relent. Fleur set her teeth, and clenched her fist. _“Imperio.”_

Hermione fell limp against her, the curse obeying Fleur’s request without fail. Again, she outstretched her magic, wrapping the Gryffindor’s broken bones in warm tendrils, gently pulling them back into place to set them correctly again. For several long minutes, the Veela kept up her concentration. She felt the bones join together as her magic encouraged them, securely held by the tendrils without worry of mistake. When they had been healed again, Fleur sighed heavily, and adjusted herself on the bed with Hermione in her arms.

She fought her tears. She would not let them fall. She cursed herself for such weakness. Two separate, polar opposite parts of her pulled and strained, one desperate to put distance between her body and Hermione’s, the other yearned to destroy it. She hated the fact that she wanted to run; she hated the fact she wanted to stay. Even now, she still had not truly looked upon Hermione’s face. She hadn’t truly seen her beloved, despite all that she had sacrificed.

She tried to saddle a level head. She tried to look at the situation with logic, with an outside-in perspective. She could begin to make sense of Hermione’s actions. It did make sense, paired with what Asteria had told her herself. Paired with the fact that she was now the fabled Phantom who hunted by day and killed by night. Paired with the fact that everyone in the Wizarding world, save a very small handful, believed her to be dead.

Hermione had offered sacrifice, too, she knew. But did that make her actions reasonable? She wasn’t sure, but she was horribly reluctant to return her heart, what pieces she had left, to the lioness so quickly. She’d broken her. She’d left. But, as Asteria had said, she did it to protect her. She did it to her parents, and Fleur had been a fool to leave the thought that she would do the same to her unconsidered.

The Veela held honesty in the highest esteem. But, at what price would they have paid for honesty? She would have been prosecuted, undoubtedly. Hunted more than she had been. Tortured for answers. And what if she’d let something slip? What if some small detail was all they needed? She’d heard the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries, and knew the weight of the Wizarding world rested on Harry’s shoulders. The Golden Trio, they were called, at first a silly name given to them by the newspapers the first time Harry faced the Dark Lord, the first time he insisted on sharing the limelight with them for their bravery and comradery. She was their heroine. She was the unfaltering intelligence behind their every operation. If she had been compromised in any way, Harry would, too.

At least this way, she was a true phantom. She lived, although she had been dead. She returned stronger, bearing the soul of a full Veela, her sacrifice given by her first feathers. Hermione, undoubtedly, had offered sacrifice. As the high priestess of her tribe, Asteria had reported that much to Fleur. Hermione had given nearly enough blood to need a transfusion and prayed to the Mother herself. And Veela had answered. That night, she was sure, was the night that Fleur lifted herself from the ground, the bruises of livor mortis staining her legs and ribs. The night the black, orphaned pup whimpered at the base of the oak tree.

Silently, Fleur rose from the bed, and stood before the window. The clouds had cleared in herald of dawn, but her constellation was clear and bright. She had not spared a single glance to the sky, pretending she didn’t care what was written there. But there, just beside Orion, the shared stars lay. Hermione’s stars reached for her own, while they seemed to turn their backs and sulk. Hermione’s stars seemed determined to collide with her own, desperate to interlock again, but her own were stubborn in their resistance.

Fleur snorted. It was all too fitting. The stars told a true story. All that was left was for the constellations in her heart and mind to align. Thoughtless, her right hand rose to her neck, and clutched a silver feather. The necklace had been forgotten when she’d stepped into the forest, but never once did she lift it from her neck since leaving the trees. She wondered idly if Hermione still wore her own. Still unwilling to look at her for comfort or confirmation, Fleur filed the thought away.

Her hands clenched into fists against the windowsill. The ritual had always been about moving forward and acceptance. But this trespass? Could it be forgiven?

Again, she was at odds with herself.

A piece of her wanted to crumble and weep in Hermione’s arms, to open her eyes and truly see, to search for a golden chain around her neck.

Another part chastised the other. She had not spent months in total isolation, forging a language with a wolf, she had not lain dead on the ground, she had not killed forty-two people, she had not built a hard exoskeleton to handle the damage dealt her just to fold like origami. She hadn’t hunted animals and eaten raw meat, reverted to a primal form, just to crumble. She was stronger than that. But Hermione, Hermione could render her defenseless with the utterance of a single word. A word, and Fleur was on her knees, carrying out whatever the other witch asked of her.

She was her Veela, just as her mother was her father’s. It had always been that way. Thankfully, both Fleur and Apolline had been destined mates that would give them free will, expect nothing of them and treat them with love and kindness. The Veela Mothers usually chose their daughters’ mates well, and if Veela herself answered Hermione, surely she hadn’t made a mistake. It would be foolish to think otherwise.

But Fleur was proud of her newfound strength, forged from pain and loneliness and death. Looking back, through all that time, her heart had yearned for Hermione. She’d ached for her. Even now, standing not five feet away from her, she ached for her still.

The Veela returned to bed just as Hermione began to stir, her pride a pill in her throat. She drew the lioness into her arms and cradled her, whispering softly to her to keep the nightmares at bay. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks, but for once, she wasn’t ashamed of them. She tucked herself firmly against Hermione’s warmth, a shuddering breath passing her lips as her scent, her solid form, her breath filled the Veela’s senses. Lyko whined softly from the floor, and Fleur returned with a quiet noise. With a soft sigh, the wolf rested her head on her paws, and was still.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Days passed. Harry and Ron organized meetings with both Griphook and Ollivander, while the lioness remained bedridden and unfocused. Her nightmares were getting better, but every so often, she would wake with sweat trickling down her spine and a scream in her throat. Fleur remained sullen and scarce after the first night, when she’d slipped away before the lioness had woken. From across the house, she heard whispered debates between the Veela and Bill, usually lasting only for a few minutes. She didn’t know where Fleur slept. She didn’t even know if she slept at all. From the faraway glaze in her eyes, she didn’t think she did. When she moved it was with determination, though her shoulders slumped. Her easy grace had abandoned her. Her light had fled.

On the ninth morning, Hermione woke to blonde hair and blue eyes shaking her awake. Her heart pounded inside her chest as her breath came shallow, her mouth dry, apparently from screaming. Her eyes locked on Fleur’s, and tears poured forth. She buried herself in the blonde’s chest, desperate for her light and warmth to chase away the shadows of nightmare. But Fleur wasn’t warm beneath her cheek. She was stiff and cold, and didn’t return her embrace. The lioness didn’t care as she cried, apologizing profusely into her shirt as she spewed half-coherent sentences.

With a deep sigh, Fleur pushed her away, and after a moment of consideration, sat heavily on the bed beside her. After a long moment of consideration, she pulled the lioness against her side, and gently rubbed her arm as the tears continued to fall, and remained silent for several long minutes. Finally, her voice lifted as she moved away from Hermione.

“I think we should talk.”

Hermione looked up at her, sniffling as she wiped irritably at her eyes. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“I think it’s better to get it out rather than pretending.” Fleur said shortly, focusing on a corner of the room. She drew a deep breath and let it rush out. “I—I’ve lost my touch with this, so please forgive me for being frank or insensitive.

“I don’t know what to do with myself. With every choice, I’m at odds with my own beliefs. I’m being torn in half by my own desires, and I don’t know which is best.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked softly, longing to inch back against her.

The Veela pulled a hand through her hair, refusing to look at her. “I want opposite things. Right now, I want to cry, and I want to run. I want to fling myself into your arms, and I want to go the rest of my life without seeing you again. I want to forgive your trespasses, and I want to condemn them.”

Fresh tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, but she dared not speak.

“I thought I was going to die. I did die.” Fleur bit, shaking her head. “I had to rebuild myself. I had to—to forge this new, stronger version of what I used to be. I feel weak and pathetic for crumbling so easily. For pretending that I was fine without you. And here you are.” Tears brimmed the Veela’s eyes, and slowly made their way down her face. Her jaw worked hard against her teeth, the muscle leaping out at regular intervals and she shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed. “Here you are, right in front of me, and I can’t even look at you. I feel ashamed and stupid and ridiculous, and weak. I argue myself in circles!” she threw her hands up before she slumped forward, her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. “I feel horrible about my treatment towards you. I feel like you deserve it. I’m torn in half. The stars say one thing, but everything inside me is at odds.”

Hermione was sobbing softly now, a hand over her mouth. How much damage had she done?

“Fleur, I—”

The Veela recoiled upon hearing her name.

“Just that!” she groaned, her fists balling in her hair. “Your voice saying my name! It’s music and a curse!”

“I never left to harm you,” Hermione forced out, her voice wavering. “Never. I offered sacrifice, I prayed to the Mothers—”

“I know,” Fleur murmured, softer now. “I know your intentions, and I know why you did what you did. I know you sacrificed. That was the only thing that brought me back. I was dead before then.”

“That brought you back?”

Fleur nodded. “I woke up with bruises all along my legs and ribs and arms, where the blood had settled. My wounds had healed, but those bruises lasted for months. My grandmother told me that sometimes we need to die in order to become stronger.”

“Tell me what happened.” Hermione whispered. “Drive your knives into me just as my voice drives them into you.”

Fleur didn’t hesitate. “I went out into the forests of my grandmother’s village, and I walked for miles without stopping. I didn't stop for days as I was eaten alive by insects. My mind attacked itself, voices were shouting at me, shadows chased me, tripped me. I fell, and I died. But I got up. When I did, I couldn’t remember anything. I relied on instinct alone, as my brain was primitive. I found a wolf pup, raised her, taught her to hunt, some of…” she grimaced as she hesitated and snarled as she spoke. “You-Know-Who’s lot found me, tortured me, and I actually became a Veela. I sprouted feathers, and talons, and they thought it meant I was ready to die, so rather than assist me on my way, they just continued to hurt me, thinking that killing me would have been a favor. I lost consciousness, and they left me alone to die.”

The memory Bellatrix had shown her played vibrantly in Hermione’s mind, uncaring of the pain it brought her. The lioness grit her teeth. She’d brought her dearest great pain, and every stab against her felt almost liberating. Like she was sharing the pain Fleur had faced alone.

“But I wasn’t dead.” The Veela said after a long silence. “I got up again, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I could think. I could remember. It hurt, then, remembering. But I didn’t let it show. I used it as bricks and mortar. I built defenses, and I left the forest. Asteria said, given the Mother’s gifts, I was no longer quarter-Veela. I’m full. I didn’t know this was possible, but apparently it has more to do with souls than blood. So I learned her magic. I learned beyond a quarter’s ability. I know how to wield the elements and how to tear minds apart. After I learned, it only took a week, perhaps, for it was all I did, I found Kingsley. He assigned tasks for me. I carried them out, and after a while, he thought I was becoming unstable. So he brought me here, to stay with Bill in between tasks, to heal. And now, my defenses are crumbling away.”

“I’m so sorry I did that to you, Fleur…” Hermione whimpered. “I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you, but I had to, they would know, and they would kill…”

Fleur remained silent for several long moments. “I’ve changed, Hermione. I didn’t think I’d become what I am.”

“It doesn’t matter, Fleur, you’re _still mine.”_ Hermione said with conviction.

Fleur detached herself from the lioness and stood sharply, looking down at her where she lie. “You wouldn’t want me if you knew what I am! What I’ve become!”

“Then tell me,” she returned softly, her voice hurt as it flitted over the space Fleur had made.

“I’m a killer. I’m a hunter. I’m a monster. I have no limits, no morals, no conscious. I’m Veela.” She growled the words, her magic thick in the air as it swelled behind her. “I’m the Death Eater’s fabled fucking Phantom! It’s me! I’m the one who wields fire and wind and water and earth! I’m the one who ripped their minds to shreds, I who impaled Yaxley with a shaft of ice the size of a fucking tree trunk! I, who hunts by day and returns bloodstained by night! Me! I’m ruthless! I’m Veela!”

Hermione appraised her calmly, silently, though tears still ran down her face. “It seems like you forget that I’m Veela, too,” she finally whispered. “I don’t care that you’ve killed. I don’t care that you think you’re a monster. You have no limits, this is true, but you do have morals. You do have a conscious. They are what give you the power to kill, and righteously so. You’re not one of them. You are a protector—and—” she gave a mighty frown at her when she made to interrupt. “And you are my mate.” These words were spoken softly. Tenderly. As if they would shatter if force or anger pushed them past her lips. “Nothing will change that.”

“You left.”

“I did. And never in my lifetime, nor any other’s, nor in a thousand lifetimes will any language ever begin to describe how very sorry I am.” Tears were running freely from her face, her eyes imploring the Veela to look at her. “Every time I look at you, my heart aches, but I stare anyway just to feel a fraction of what you did. Harry told me you couldn’t follow me the day after Dumbledore died. I cried on your chest for hours, and I thought of every possibility imaginable to find a loophole. But I remembered what Asteria told me in the water at the solstice. She told me my mouth could lie, but my heart couldn’t. She knew, somehow, what was going to happen, and she told me how to keep you alive. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but I did that day. And it worked. Sacrifice was due from both of us, and it was costly, but it worked. They think you’re dead. You, a Veela, one of the biggest threats, and here you are, alive in front of me,” she said, her voice breaking. “I thought I’d lost you, too. I couldn’t cast a corporeal Patronus for months, and I was so, so afraid that you were gone, and because of me. I’m so very sorry, my soul will ache until I die. I left. I lied. But I never stopped loving you. No matter what happens, what we do, where we go, I will always love you.”

Those words, those last five words with such gentle grace, tore down every defense Fleur had built. They shattered like glass against stone, and wrought Fleur to her knees. She’d lasted longer than she thought she would. Ten days. She lasted ten days, and five words destroyed what she’d spent five months building. On the floor, the cold, indifferent, stony Fleur died. Her vision restored itself, and Hermione’s figure crossed into her awareness, crouched beside her. Though her face was blurred by her tears, she exalted in her warmth, as the ice in her soul melted, as she found pieces of herself that she’d lost. Of course they’d been taken with Hermione. The very best parts of her naturally fled in favor of Hermione, and they’d returned with her.

Hermione carefully left the bed, and her arms, though they were still thin and frail, wrapped around the Veela and pulled her close. Though they sobbed into each other’s shoulders, they reached an understanding. They offered apology a million times over, and offered forgiveness each time in turn. No words of time and trial were spoken. They didn’t have to be. Deep in their souls they already knew that boundaries had been built, their limits unknown, and to test them gently. Hermione was the first to press them with a gentle kiss to the blonde’s cheek.

Fleur did her best not to recoil. Though she reveled in the attention, she was still wounded, raw, their boundaries unknown and unpressed. Hermione seemed to understand, and returned her lips to the Veela’s temple, where soft words were gently whispered as they rocked together. The sunlight bled through the windows, and the sea crashed below them. Outside, the world seemed at peace. Like there wasn’t a war raging around them. Inside the cottage, minor civil disputes broke out, between Harry, Ron, and Griphook, but at the end of the day, warm food was ready for them, with soft beds and safe wards.

 

Several days after their mutual breakdown, Hermione exited the bedroom unassisted. With Fleur’s acceptance and forgiveness, the wounds she’d healed finally finished mending. Without it, Hermione’s ribs had ached as though they were still broken, she felt lightheaded, as though she’d lost too much blood, and her bruises refused to fade. But after that tenth morning, her wounds almost washed away as she bathed. Given Bill’s rich cooking, she was beginning to gain the weight she’d lost, her body becoming aware of its own potential and strength again as she smelled breakfast cooking. Fleur was already downstairs, helping Bill as she set gravy to simmer.

Bill looked relieved. So long, he’d worried over Fleur, worried that the light and life that made her _Fleur_ had been extinguished without hope of redemption. She brightened as Hermione sat down at the table, though she was still guarded, the Veela was happy to see the lioness. She set the kettle in front of her with a teacup and dropped a soft kiss to her forehead.   

Harry, Ron, Luna and Dean joined them, and after Bill and Fleur had seen to Ollivander and Griphook respectively, the seven of them settled together at the overcrowded table.

“Bill,” Harry said, setting his teacup down. “I was wondering if we could extend our time here, a little longer. There’s—there’s something we need to plan, and I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”

Hermione, who’d been left out of the loop for the past two weeks, looked up sharply, before she glanced at Fleur. The Veela’s face had drawn, but she’d caught the small flash of pain that had crossed her features. She twisted her fingers together, anxiety curling in her stomach and reaching up to her chest. She couldn’t bear to leave. Not when they’d just so recently started reconnecting, healing. When the light had just begun to return to Fleur’s eyes, when the haunting darkness within them had begun to take its leave.

“Stay as long as you need,” Bill replied, unaware of Hermione’s turmoil. “But I’ll ask you again, can we help with anything?”

Harry shook his head. “No, what you’re doing is more than enough. Far more than I ever expected. Hermione,” he said, glancing to the lioness. “Can I have a word with you, after breakfast?”

Hesitantly, she nodded, her eyes locked on Fleur. The Veela’s face gave nothing away as she stared blankly down at her plate, emptier than Bill had ever seen it since she's arrived. Lyko was at her side, her dark fur contrasting greatly with Fleur’s pale complexion. Almost mechanically, the Veela’s fingers wove themselves through the dark fur, and found a source of comfort there. When Harry rose, Hermione followed, and, uncertain of her welcome, hesitantly dropped a kiss to Fleur’s hair.

The Veela did not respond.

Outside, Harry drew Draco Malfoy’s wand from his pocket and cast a silencing charm over them. Hermione looked at him expectantly.

“How are you feeling?”

She drew a breath. “Better. There’s hardly any pain now.”

He nodded, his expression tight. “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Listen, I’ve seen some things. His thoughts and actions, again. The night Dobby died, he went to Hogwarts. Dumbledore had the Elder Wand.” He shook his head to cut her off. “Ollivander knows it was the Elder. He knows it exists. You see, Gregorovitch had it a long time ago, You-Know-Who tracked him down, only to see that he no longer had it. Grindlewald had stolen it. At the height of his power, Dumbledore dueled him, and won, and thus became the wielder of the Elder. He was buried with it, and now, his tomb’s split open, and _he_ has it.” Harry drew a deep breath. “Dumbledore never wanted me to control the Elder. I see that now. You were right, all along, you were right… we should have been hunting Horcruxes, not Hallows.”

Hermione drew a deep breath and let it rush from her lips. “What else?”

“We’ve decided to break into Gringotts. At the Malfoys’, we heard Bellatrix ordering Griphook to tell her whether or not that was the true sword of Gryffindor. He lied, said it was a fake. From what we heard of his conversation with Gornuk, we know that it was supposed to be in Bellatrix’s vault in Gringotts, which makes me think that a Horcrux could be there, too.”

The lioness considered this silently. “That seems to be a likely assumption.”

Harry nodded, pleased to know she was on board, or at least with one foot. “You still can’t tell her,” he said, barely breathing the words.

“I know, Harry.” She bit. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave her again like last time.”

Harry said nothing for a moment, and seemed to be steeling himself. “There’s something else you should know.”

She looked up, her expression guarded.

“We—we couldn’t get your wand. Ron has Pettigrew’s, I have Draco’s, and we have, we have hers.”

Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. “My wand is gone?” she asked, her voice soft and brittle.

Harry looked away from her, well aware of the pain brought. He remembered, very keenly, how it felt to learn his wand had broken. He remembered that it felt like one had just lost a dear friend. He reached out for her, and hugged her close. He felt hot tears against his chin and said nothing. He only held her, lest add to her pain. Surprisingly, she only returned the embrace for a few minutes before she pulled away with a shudder, and a defiant shake of her head.

“Doesn’t matter.” She said firmly. “We’re taking them down.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, stunned by the ferocity in her voice.

“Remember Kingsley talking about a Phantom, Harry? It’s Fleur. She’s the Phantom.”

Harry stepped back. _“Fleur?_ But she’s so—all those people?”

“She’s changed, Harry.” Hermione said softly. “She’s changed because of me. And she’s killed all those people.”

Harry looked away. He remembered the time he’d spent with the Veela at the banks of Black Lake, how gentle she had been, how tranquil. He remembered the oath she made to him, remembered how fiercely she forbade hesitance to follow her the next time she battled. But to have killed so many. Bill said forty-two Death Eaters had fallen at the Phantom’s hand, when he’d asked. Never once had he used Fleur’s name. Never once had he used a female pronoun.

Harry shook his head. He couldn’t see Fleur, kind and gentle Fleur, wielding Veela magic with the sole intent to kill, not to protect, but to maim and destroy. He couldn’t see hatred and fury raging behind those soft blue eyes that burned so passionately, he couldn’t imagine that fire having died to give way for such horrendous wrath. But he had seen it. He’d felt a long, rough fingers press his trachea closed, watched as cobalt glinted dangerously, as the siren’s voice rang out, cold and harsh, grating against his eardrums. He’d known of Fleur’s danger. Of course, he’d know. But to think she was capable of such acts, of upholding her oath to such an extent…

“You both need to come back inside.”

Harry’s head snapped up to see the blonde Veela standing before them. He took a closer look at her. The eyes he’d seen upon arriving at Shell Cottage were completely absent. The eyes before him were not cold and bloodthirsty, but they were not the warm ones he remembered, either. Then he looked around them. The bubble of his silencing charm was completely gone. Bewildered, he looked back at Fleur.

She lifted one shoulder. “You need practice with that wand before it’ll offer you stronger spells. If the day gets warmer, we’ll work on it.” She looked between the two of them before nodding back to the house. “Inside. You’re in no condition to be outside in this weather.” She said, looking pointedly at the lioness.

Without offering argument or protest, the two followed her back to the cottage. There, the trio disappeared into Griphook’s room to fill Hermione in on what she’d missed, and to continue their plotting.


	23. All that We See or Seem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, dears. Again, with another, however, this one will be the last for a spell, given we're cutting down to the wire. Also, it's much shorter than the others I've been posting as of late and it's where the romance picks up. So sex, but it's not quite like the other scenes. Either way, I hope you enjoy and I'll see you in about a week or so with the next chapter.  
> Love you, mean it.  
> Regina  
> Chapter title from 'A Dream Within a Dream'

While Harry, Ron, and Hermione were upstairs with Griphook scheming, Fleur, Bill and Dean sat together in the parlor, discussing what had happened in the Malfoys’ mansion. Fleur excused herself upon hearing the full story of Dobby’s bravery and sacrifice, her stomach churning as she heard Dean recount seeing Hermione’s wand thrown into the fireplace. With a great sigh, she knelt down at the head of Dobby’s grave, and waved her hand. For the first time since she’d left the trees, she made something beautiful with her magic. Flowers burst from the frosted ground, and curled around the white stone engraved with _Here Lies Dobby, A Free Elf._ Red roses drooped heavily over the headstone, as if they wept for the vessel buried underneath them.

Fleur stood sharply, and returned inside. She rapped on the door to the smallest bedroom, and kept her expression guarded. Ron’s face poked through the door, and he jumped backwards when he saw the wolf stood with Fleur. Ever since he’d first found himself on the floor with her fangs inches from his throat, he’d done his best to give a berth of space to the Veela, for wherever she went, the wolf undoubtedly followed.

Hermione’s face replaced Ron’s, and she smiled at the Veela apologetically. She hated spending hours at a time locked up in the bedroom, away from Fleur, but she had already explained the desperate measures the current times called for. She’d told the Veela more than Harry had authorized to tell her, though Fleur had already figured a great deal of it out on her own. Her months spent tracking and hunting had not been forgotten, though her time spent had paused for the moment.

“May I have a word with you?” Fleur asked softly, glancing over the lioness’s shoulder to the others behind her. “Alone?”

Hermione nodded, and stepped out, declaring a break for the little committee. Fleur took her hand and led her into the bedroom they shared, where she bade Lyko to wait and Hermione sat down at the foot of the bed, looking expectantly at the Veela.

Fleur drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Hermione,” she began softly, eyes locked on the floor. “I know, to a degree, what you are planning. Something resides in Gringotts, something you need to fulfil your mission to Dumbledore. And you can’t do that without a wand.”

“I have a wand,” Hermione returned softly. From her pocket she pulled Bellatrix’s wand, which sat dark and ugly in her hand.

“It doesn’t obey you,” Fleur murmured. “But I have something that will.” She walked over to a corner of the room, and dropped to one knee. She pulled a loose floorboard free, and returned to Hermione with an intricately carved and decorated wooden box. She lifted the lid, and retrieved a rosewood wand. She offered it to Hermione, looking between lioness and wand expectantly.

“Your wand?” Hermione breathed. “But—what about—”

Fleur outstretched her free hand, and a flame materialized in her palm. “I don’t need a wand anymore.” As she spoke, the flame turned into water, which twirled and leaped merrily in her hand. She closed her fist and the water disappeared. “I offer you my wand to protect you, and to keep you safe if I cannot guard you myself.”

Hermione studied the Veela carefully, then the wand. With a shaking hand, she took the wand, and sighed heavily as warmth and calm flooded her. Gentle sparks emitted at the touch, as if the wand, too, had sighed.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“How does it feel?”

“Like—like I’m holding your hand,” she breathed, her eyes closed.

Fleur sighed, and very gingerly, she cupped the girl’s face in her palm, and laid her lips against hers before she could begin to think of doing anything else. The lioness drew a sharp, surprised breath, and melted against her touch. Their bodies melded together in reunion, sighing into the touch of their mate. Fleur’s lips slowly claimed Hermione’s, gently whispering touches conveyed words the English or French language did not have to utter. Warmth spread through Hermione’s body and built against Fleur’s, every ache and pain now insignificant and ignored. 

Tears rolled over soft skin, and met counterparts. Sobs were held back, unwilling to break the connection so recently rekindled. Hands rose to remember, memorize, to map and trace hills and valleys, once so often explored. Breath hastened and blood rushed, and suddenly Hermione felt a weight hovering over her, gently pressing against her as she lay back against the bed.

Fleur reclaimed her.

Above her, the Veela moved as fluidly and gracefully as she ever had, her earlier fatigued clumsiness forgotten. Her lips, sure and steady, found Hermione’s again and again, and it wasn’t until both had become sore and swollen that she heard the same plea falling from the Gryffindor’s lips. Fleur sat up carefully, and looked down at the woman under her. How many times had she asked that same question in that same, desperate voice? Had the Veela ever denied her? Now, she decided, was not the time to start, even as pride knotted at the back of her mouth and stretched her throat as she swallowed.

They crashed together, pain and fear overshadowed by love and longing as ancient parts of themselves roared to life again. As skin pressed against limits of skin, prayers and lamentations fell like mantras around them. As fingers tangled in hair, as lips locked and tongues clashed, clothes were lost, carelessly tossed away in urgency to close the space between them overrode any other pervious task or thought. All that existed was warmth, pressure, and heartbeats. Finally, chest collided with chest, and core with core. In those moments, that singular word held several meanings. Please. _Forgive me._ Please. _Take me back._ Please. _Make me yours again_

Hermione cried out as she felt Fleur against her, gasping into her neck as she felt every inch of the Veela bare against her. She ran her hands over her back, clutched at her shoulders, unsure of what she wanted to praise first.

Fleur devoted her attention to Hermione’s eyes, finally, _finally_ seeing her without the haze that had kept her guarded, shrouded from the Veela’s full conscious. Finally, full color restored itself, and shone out. Where they had fluttered closed, they now opened, hazel both bright and dark simultaneously. She lost herself in those eyes, even as she reveled in the heat and softness against her.

Together, they brought their boundaries down. They destroyed every inch of mortar, and shattered every brick. Every scar they’d given each other was mapped, kissed, and forgiven. Every decibel of pain inflicted was shared and forgotten, cast away as an afterthought.

While their conscious minds had all but forgotten each other’s bodies, their hands and mouths remembered their claims well. Nails and teeth marred soft skin and left marks of ownership in their wake. As Hermione’s hands ran on their own accord over the Veela’s shoulders, she found the body she currently worshipped was quite different than the one she had praised in her dreams and fantasies in the dead of night. This body, though its plains of fine blonde hairs were sewn in the same patterns and the scarce freckles were scattered in the same constellations, was harder as muscles stood firm beneath her skin, sculpted and unyielding. Where before the flesh was at least somewhat pliant, this new body did not give way to her touch, but the Veela still shivered and shook under her hands as she had before.

She was still rough but never inflected more pain than Hermione could handle, though she was quite enthusiastic. She took Hermione in several positions, never quite pushing her far enough to allow her to loose herself. She finally settled when her lover was in near oblivion, and pressed their sexes together. While she was unpracticed, she quickly fell into a rhythm and caught up with Hermione.   

They came together, and fell into each other, clinging to their anchors, so as not to lose the other again. Just as they did the first time, they turned into one another, and confessed love through tears. Again, magic hung thick around them, enveloping them, and for the first time since Dumbledore’s death and as temporary as it might be, neither felt as though words were left unspoken. 

 

* * *

 

Sunlight bled through the curtains, dust moats swirled lazily in the rays. For each exhale, they were disturbed, roused, their endless tumbling somewhat hastened before it slowed again. The war between them finally lay at rest. While it raged beyond the wards set around the small, squat cottage, the battle that had been plaguing them for weeks lay dead at their feet, where they lie together in a tangle of naked limbs. Fleur blinked lazily, her vision somewhat clouded, and she was left with little desire to clear it, as doing so posed a threat to disturbing the woman curled at her side.

Hermione. Finally, she could think the name without a snarl marring her features. Finally, she could taste it as it rushed over her lips like a greedy breath. Finally, she could feel warmth beside her and the soft texture of hair and unblemished skin. Without hesitation or resentment, she allowed herself a deep sigh of contentment, and melted against Hermione’s body. The beast had been tamed. The primal, unevolved animal she’d become was tranquil and domesticated. Though still acutely aware of her fangs, talons, and wrath, she purred, nuzzled, and basked in Hermione’s arms.

The lioness stirred sleepily, and woke to blonde hair in her eyes. She stretched her arms out and wrapped Fleur tightly in them, and shivered as warm breasts pressed against her own. Her fingers plunged into her hair, and trailed down her back, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Fleur hummed softly in appreciation, and nuzzled closer.

“Good morning, love,” Hermione murmured softly. A lazy hum served as a reply. A gentle chuckle shook her form. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in ages,” she sighed.

Silence enveloped them. Hermione spent long moments memorizing the patterns of Fleur’s breaths and the freckles of her skin, and lazily let her hand travel along the new scar Fleur wore for her. The word _Mudblood_ was barely visible, so thin the letters were and so pale the skin. Though she hadn’t learned what exactly allowed the Veela to bear her mark, she knew it had been taken while she was blind, before their reconcile. Words had no place between them just yet. The battle so recently won had not yet begun to decay, but already words needed voicing. Already, their safe haven was in danger by the slip of lip or tongue.

“I love you,” Hermione whispered, turning deeper into Fleur’s arms. She tucked her face into her neck, and planted a long, soft kiss there. The Veela murmured the sentiment back, against her hair, with a gentle tightening of her arms that did not loosen. The lioness drew a shaky breath, and exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry…”

Fleur shifted beside her, her hold even tighter now. “Stop.” She said simply. “Don’t start now. I know there’s more. But please, I beg you, don’t start now. Wait for after this is over, after we win.”

Hermione, blinking back her tears, nodded without raising her voice again. After what could have been hours, Bill knocked softly at the door with the announcement of breakfast. With little desire and much hesitation, the two untangled themselves, dressed, and met the others downstairs.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Fleur looked around in confusion.

“Bill,” she began. “Have you seen Lyko?”

The tall man glanced down to Fleur’s right side.

“I thought she’d be with you; I haven’t seen her.”

Fleur’s eyes widened, and desperately trying to control her frenzy, began searching every nook and cranny for her companion. The wolf was nowhere to be found.

She burst outside and ran into the forest. The Veela’s rebounded from the trees as she called desperately in every language she knew, and several times in the wolf’s native tongue. Though she did not know her language very well, Fleur was fraught to try everything she could. Still, the wolf gave no token of her presence, or of having heard her.

Fleur hit the wet, soggy ground, her knees instantly soaking. She’d left. The companion she’d fought with, learned with, survived with had vanished like smoke. The small, shivering pup she’d nourished back to health and watched grow strong and fierce no longer held a place at her side, would no longer hunt and stalk and fight with her.

 _A guide,_ Asteria had said. Once one is found, a guide is no longer needed. So she’d left, after Fleur had been found, after she accepted Hermione once more.

Wracking sobs tore from Fleur’s chest. How horribly she mourned the wolf’s absence. How desperately she wished to see her just once to more, to thank her for her strength and stability, her comradeship and friendship. For months, the wolf had been her only companion, but never once could she recall a time where she’d so much as offered thanks to her and the thought tore her apart.                      

Hermione found her beneath a wide hemlock, soaked to the bone with rain. With a gentle urging, she brought her to her feet, and supported most of her weight as they made their way slowly back into the cottage. Changed and dressed, Hermione force-fed her toast and porridge in bed, though she had no appetite. After choking down a few bites of each, the Veela rolled to her side, where Hermione reluctantly joined her. There they lay for long, silent hours; Hermione offering respite, while Fleur mourned the loss of her dearest companion.


	24. Is but a Dream Within a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest beloveds,  
> Wow. A long time in the coming. Yes, I know we have one more chapter to go, but when it's posted, I will not leave a final note. Rather, I'll leave you to dive in headfirst without preamble. So, understanding this, I'll take my time now to sign off. This has been a wild and crazy ride. Nearly four years in the making, and we're on the brink of finishing our trilogy. You all have been absolutely wonderful, and I'm sad to be writing this last note. I'm sorry I couldn't keep this going forever, but I'll continue tinkering with this pair. I'm hardly finished with them.  
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for sticking with me through my leave of absence while I was away at Basic, through sticky, sappy romance, and heart-wrenching pain. Thank you for your kind words of praise and encouragement, thank you for being so incredibly awesome I can't think of the words to describe all of you. Because you're all that rad.  
> Furthermore, I'd like to thank my dear friends, FaeWolf and IndieFox, for their help with betaing this as well as "Hey bruh you fucked up this part." and "Jesus Christ, you're gonna fucking kill me." moments. And, of course, the whole chat's many, many awesome, gut-wrenching Cards Against Humanity games.  
> Last, but certainly not least, WhistletheSilver, the one who inspired this entire series. Without that incredible work of hers, this work wouldn't have become an idea. Without it, I wouldn't have lost my soul to the Fleurmione fandom, but honestly, I'm glad it was Witnessed that took it. And crushed it. And patched it up again. And filled it with "JUST TELL HER YOU FUCKING LOVE HER" stuff. Truly, Whistle, you are an inspiration to us all.  
> Again, thank you all so much. And please, don't fret. Alternate endings as well as drabbles and possibly other fics are undergoing development at this moment, so please drop by every now and again to see if anything's new. And of course, I'd be happy to talk to you on Tumblr if you like.  
> With the utmost love and gratitude and even sorrow,  
> Rebecca

The next day, Fleur seemed to take up her mask of indifference again. Hermione tried to comfort her in whatever way she could, be it a gentle touch or a passing kiss, but she knew it would take time and she could not rush it. Fleur had lost a sister, and pain like that would never fully abandon her.

It was with great remorse and reluctance that she attended the next meeting of their little committee in Griphook’s bedroom. Through the grappling and arguing between goblin and wizard, she found herself distracted, distant, and weary. She had little desire to quell the tempers as they rose, as she was left to her own thoughts beneath their noise and banter. Fear and anxiety gnawed at her relentlessly.

They had to leave soon. They had to continue their mission. Although the times and dates had not yet been discussed, it was inevitable. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell Fleur just yet, so soon after they’d healed, so soon after she’d lost her companion.

It wasn’t for a few weeks until Fleur began to return to humanity. It came in bits and pieces, in small quirks of her lips at Bill’s jokes, or the flushes of color on her cheeks as Hermione brushed against her. Finally it seemed she could live past the absence at her side, even as her fingers still twitched for the familiar texture of coarse fur, as Hermione filled it every chance she got. Finally it dawned on her where exactly the wolf had been leading her.

And finally, it seemed like an opportune moment to tell her what she could of the plan.

The Veela was just putting the dishes away from dinner, after having washed them the Muggle way because she liked the way the warm water felt on her hands. Hermione watched silently for a short time, and studied the graceful stretch of her muscles as she reached for the top shelf. It seemed odious. Such a beautiful creature, so recently wounded and freshly healed, already targeted again. But she had no choice.

“Fleur?”

Blue eyes turned expectantly to her. Even though it had been weeks, the absence of the far-away glaze still left Hermione breathless, still reminded her that she could be seen again, that she had no defense under the Veela’s scrutiny. The cold indifference no longer resided in her stare, but warmth, and love, stronger than it had before when she wore the blue Beauxbaton uniform, but just as pure and unyielding as it was when it was new, and Hermione felt her throat tighten at the thought.  

Hermione desperately tried to clear the lump. “I was wondering if I could talk to you in private.”

A flicker of humor crossed the Veela’s face before she schooled her expression and led the way upstairs without so much as a word in question. The anxiety and guilt that had been eating at her swelled tenfold as she followed, each footfall landing heavier than the last.

Fleur turned to her when the door has closed behind them, curious and even a little excited.

Hermione drew a deep breath. “Fleur, I wanted to talk with you about—”

A strange expression crossed the Veela’s face. It was a moment later that Hermione understood what it meant as she felt something break through her own wards she’d set around the perimeter of Shell Cottage. As one, the two Veelas burst out of the room and down the stairs, the rosewood wand held secure and firm in Hermione’s outstretched arm. In the parlor, Harry and Bill were already taking their battle stances, wands aimed at the door. Fleur fell into her predatory stance quickly, her teeth bare and her hands outstretched.

Bill took initiative and threw the door open, casting a shield out before him to absorb any hostile attack. It was a shock to everyone when he began laughing, and when another joined. Hermione crept up behind him, and nearly fainted when she saw Remus Lupin standing on the doorstep with a tightly wrapped blue bundle in his arms, a patch of turquoise hair poking from the top.

 The sudden abundance of noise startled the poor boy, but he hadn’t yet decided whether he wanted to cry or not, and after a few moments of quiet whispering from his father, was contented again.

“How did you get here?” Hermione whispered, looking at the newborn with wonder, all previous thought forgotten as her battered heart clung to this new happiness.

“Portkey,” Lupin replied softly, absolutely beaming as he rocked his son gently in his arms. “It was rather difficult, but I practiced beforehand. Would you like to hold him?”

Hermione nodded happily, and after adjusting the child in her arms, began talking to him, telling him of all the wonders of his family. Fleur, hardly able to look away but completely terrified of the child, went into the kitchen for wine to celebrate. When she returned with glasses, the lioness and the baby had disappeared.

“She went up to your room,” Lupin answered as he caught her glances and took a glass, one arm looped around Harry’s shoulder. “Teddy started to cry, and reading helps soothe him.”

The Veela ascended the staircase with great care, and paused at the bedroom door to hear Hermione’s voice softy sounding from the crack.

_“It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived, whom you may know, by the name of Annabel Lee. And this maiden she lived, with no other thought, than to love and be loved by me.”_

Fleur knocked at the door quietly, so not to startle infant or woman, and entered upon invitation. “Edgar Allen Poe, Hermione? Are you trying to give the boy nightmares?”

The lioness rolled her eyes, and settled more comfortably on the foot of their bed, the book held lazily in her hand. “At least it wasn’t _The Raven_. _Annabel Lee_ is a poem about love, and tragedy, yes, but undying love. _The Raven_ is a nightmare itself, so if I wanted to induce them, I would have chosen it. What would you have read to him?”

Fleur considered silently for a moment. “ _Eulalie_ is rather pleasant when one sings, if my choices are limited to Poe’s poetry. If not, I find the company of Victor Hugo rather comforting.”

Hermione smiled down at little Teddy, where his eyes had begun fluttering during her reading now remain perfectly still. “I’ll have to check in on his work, then,”

Fleur watched carefully from a distance, and sipped carefully from her wine. Something began to stir inside her chest as she watched Hermione adjust the child in her arms, as she whispered softly to him. The image of a blonde-haired child surfaced in her mind’s eye, and she found the idea highly pleasing. Without conscious decision, she moved forward, and wrapped her arms around Hermione’s shoulder and the sleeping child.

“Hermione,” she began softly. “I think I want children.”

The lioness cast a surprised glance up to her. “Not any time soon, I hope?”

Fleur chuckled and shook her head. “No, sometime in the next few years, perhaps. But I think I want them. Little daughters just like us.”

It was Hermione’s turn to chuckle. “I don’t think the world can handle anyone else just like us.”

Fleur lifted one shoulder. “It’d be a better place.”

Reality crashed down with the likeness of ice water. How much did this small child risk at the very moment? Both his parents were blacklisted citizens, wanted and persecuted. His godfather was at the top of the list above those. Barely a few days into life, and little Teddy was already faced with possibility after very real, very likely possibility of losing so very much. This was not the time to have children, or even think about it; not when they had so much to lose, and so little time to know what they had at all. More than that, if they did have children, would Fleur be stable? What if the Phantom’s violence reared again? What if this emotional turmoil never truly faded? Even though she had taken Hermione back, even though she hadn’t scored a kill in weeks, she still felt the urge, the itch. What kind of mother would she be?

Hermione watched as her face paled, and offered her a comforting smile as she patted Fleur’s hand. “One day, love.”

Fleur shook her head to clear it, and focused on the child in Hermione’s arms. He looked so soft, so peaceful, and she gradually let herself relax as she ceased her sadistic thoughts.

They stood in silence for a time, gently rocking to and fro, humming softly to one another and to Teddy. It was peaceful, whole, unbruised by unwanted thoughts or hurtful words. Until Fleur spoke next.

“Was there something you needed to talk to me about?”

Blood drained from Hermione’s face. Now wasn’t the time, not when Fleur had just brightened with happiness at thought of children, not while she held Lupin and Tonks’s pride and joy in her arms. It was too dark a reality to burden such a happy time with. It would have to wait.

“I, I don’t remember,” she said instead, frowning. She felt Fleur’s eyes boring into her profile, and kept her attention on Teddy rather than chance a glance at her. “It must not have been very important.”

Fleur made a noncommittal noise and nodded. Though the tidings were good, and the spirits were high, Lupin only stayed for half a glass of wine before he took Teddy back into his arms and returned home, a joyful spring in his step. Harry seemed both overwhelmed and overjoyed himself, and took several glasses of wine in celebration of being named godfather. This tiding of new life lifted up the entire household in Shell Cottage, save for Griphook, who had retired to his room within the moment of the wine opening, and left no room for sorrow.

Hermione let herself forget her strife once more as she drank it away. She laughed from Fleur’s side, and squeezed her hand, and thought of their own children they’d have one day. After the war. After this trial. After they heal.

As they lay together, her thoughts returned to little Teddy. She rolled towards Fleur, and tucked her face into her neck.

“Fleur?” she asked quietly.

A mumbled hum served as a reply.

“How will we have children? Do you want to adopt?”

“We can have our own if you wish. A sacrifice will be needed, of course.”

“What kind?”

“Well, since we’re both female, I, as the Veela, will offer a series of blood sacrifices, and yours will be carrying and giving birth to the child. From the blood sacrifice, the Veela Mothers take my genetic information, and from there, you’ll become pregnant, should they honor our offerings.”

Hermione fell silent in contemplation, one hand draped over her abdomen. Did she want to carry a child? In the darkness, she studied the silhouette of Fleur’s profile. She’d carry anything for the Veela. But to nurture part of Fleur’s blood? Their combined flesh? To protect it, cherish it, raise it with her? She found she very much enjoyed the thought.  

“I think I’d like that,” she murmured. “No time soon, of course, but I’d like that.”

 

*    *    *

 

Morning drew the same pastel streaks across the sky as the sun chased away the night’s intruding clouds, and birds took up song in herald of dawn. Hermione woke to an empty bed and the sweet smells of breakfast wafting up from downstairs. A smile tugged at her lips as she stretched, burying her face into Fleur’s pillow, the blanket tight around her. With a sigh, she regretfully withdrew from the warmth and comfort the bed provided. Naked, she made her way to the window and looked out at the sandy beaches and white-capped waves, the line of woodlands and rocky ridges that barred entrance to the little safe-haven.

How quickly time passed. Dobby’s grave appeared unsullied in the garden, as if the earth there had never been moved. The garden and the trees were bursting with life, even the very latest bloomers had joined in their jubilee. The driftwood, left strewn about the beach from winter storms, was already broken down to splinters by the onslaught of the tide. Bees had come out of their hiding to seek out blossoms, and the whole garden was filled with their gentle hum. Several had taken it upon themselves to pollinate Dobby’s roses, who despite the earlier harsh frosts, refused to give up their blooms. May had arrived, and soon, summer would follow.

Hermione sighed heavily.

Another summer. She twisted her fingers together and stared absentmindedly at her hands. If only they lived in a perfect world. She would still have a place in her parent’s memories and hearts. She would still have a home with them. She’d be graduating soon. She’d be moving in with Fleur. She would find a little job, perhaps at the Three Broomsticks or a little Muggle café, and maybe consider taking a year off school, then berate herself for having such thoughts and enroll in university. She would come home to the Veela every night, kiss her, hug her, lose herself in blonde hair and blue eyes. They would visit their parents’ houses and chase the wind on horse- and dragon-back, delight in showing the Veela other Muggle activities. Maybe they could have taken that ski trip the coming winter. Maybe they could have sat around a fire and discussed college, and work and future plans with steaming mugs of hot cocoa, the worries of such things forgotten for a time. Maybe she could have saved every penny she earned to buy Fleur a ring. Maybe not for engagement, or marriage, but something to complement the silver feather hung around her neck. Something to glitter from her hand.

But this was not that world. She had left school, and faced the very real possibly of dying when she returned. She lost her parents, lost every home she’d known. She’d given up her dearest beloved with the expectation of never being taken back again, and she thanked every god she knew for the outcome she’d been given. She stood with a price on her head, and a target on her back for the blood in her veins, for the mutation that laid magic in her fingertips. She faced tragedy any way she turned, and she had no idea of how to escape it. The answer was obvious, but the means eluded her. Win. They had to win. But how little information were they counting on? How much stronger was their enemy?

Fleur’s voice called, to the general household, that breakfast was ready and to be down soon. With a last glance out the window, Hermione turned away and heeded Fleur’s call.

Last minute preparations were made in secret after breakfast, and anxiety clawed at the lioness. She still hadn’t told Fleur, and Harry wasn’t willing to let any more time pass by.

“Hermione, we have to leave soon,” Harry reasoned, packing up their papers and maps.

“Harry, please, just a few more days,” the lioness pleaded, her eyes filling with tears at the thought.

Harry paused at the door, one foot outside as he looked back at Hermione. “It’ll only make it that much harder to _go.”_ His voice was not condescending, nor antagonizing. It was soft. Gentle. Reasonable. Pained. He saw how much it hurt the lioness to be faced with such prospect. “She can’t come with us,” he whispered, knowing the argument and plea very well.

A long, pregnant silence passed.

“Fine.” Hermione whispered, tear tracks running the length of her cheeks. “Fine. We’ll leave at dawn.”

A low thump sounded from the other side of the door. Harry shot a confused glance at it and opened it. Fleur was on her knees on the hallway, one hand on the wall and the other over her heart.

“You’re… leaving?” she rasped, choked of breath. “Now? Already?”

“We must, Fleur, we have to finish this,” Harry answered, his voice as thick as it had been when he spoke to Hermione. But Fleur would not look at him. She gave no token of hearing him at all. Instead her eyes were locked on Hermione, tears shamelessly rolling down her cheeks.

“Stay…” she whimpered. “Stay with me, Hermione, please, you’re all I need! Please, please stay!” sobs began to punctuate her plea, wracking from her body viciously. Even though her tears, she did not break her stare. The lioness fell forward, wrapping the Veela in her arms as her own sobs took over her.

“I have to go,” she sobbed. “I have to go and defeat him…”

“Let me go,” she pleaded. “Let me come with you! I can do so much more now! I’m the Phantom! The Death Eater’s bloody Phantom! Let me follow you!”

“I can’t,” Hermione whimpered, hating herself with every fiber of her own being. “I can’t…”

“I just got you back,” Fleur’s voice broke. “You said you’d never leave again!” her breaths came faster, her hands began to clutch at Hermione so much it was painful. But the Gryffindor didn’t feel the bruises forming, all she felt was Fleur in her arms, shaking, crying, begging her not to leave. Shakily, she began to rock back and forth, quietly hushing Fleur while trying to regain control of herself, but her efforts were futile. The dam she’d built was bursting, fear, pain, and hopelessness poured out. She clung to her anchor, sobbing into her shoulder, breathlessly confessing her love for her over and over again.

One of Fleur’s hands captured Hermione’s. She clutched it to her chest, and buried her face in Hermione’s neck, her tears soaking the other’s skin. Fleur had known, of course she had known. She couldn’t have ever expected Hermione to give up this task, not when lives were being lost every day, when being were being hunted down and killed and lies covered their deaths. But the reality of her leaving still struck her like ice, still hollowed her out of anything she’d managed to hold in time she’d been given. The reality of being left again still stung like whiplash, like betrayal, but she couldn’t blame her. Not when innocence was dying. 

Hermione held on as the world around her fell away. Nothing existed except Fleur. She didn’t hear Griphook’s rude remark about self-control. She didn’t hear Bill’s heavy, worried, fast-approaching footfalls on the stairs. She didn’t see the look of utter despair on his face when he saw his dearest friend in pieces on the floor again. She didn’t see Ron or Harry as they passed to give them time. She didn’t hear the door close behind her.

They were left alone in the hallway, their sobs unrestrained and unhindered by any desire to quiet them. They clung to one another, trying their very best to meld their bodies together. Hermione pulled away, and cupped Fleur’s face in her hands. The blonde was reluctant to let her go and kept her grip. Her eyes gave no sign of relenting their downpour, and although Hermione was positive her vision had been reduced to blurs of color, the Veela still looked at her with fear and hope. The striking blue of her iris was stark against the bloodshot hue her eyes had adopted, her eyebrows drew together in the middle, and her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. Her shoulders still shook, her breaths were still ragged, her grip bruising. She was the very picture of desperate hope vying with soul-crushing fear. She hated herself for being so hopeful. She hated herself for being so afraid.

Hermione crushed their lips together, and pulled away again.

“I love you,” she whispered, hoarse. “I love you so very much.” A deeper fear erupted in Fleur’s eyes. She was terrified; so much so, she’d stopped breathing all together.

“This will not be like last time, Fleur.” Hermione continued, making firm eye contact and willing steel into her words. “I am a fool, an idiot! What I did was unforgivable. But you’ve forgiven me…” she said thickly, clearing her throat as she swiped at tears. “You forgave me. You continue to love me, without grudge, and I can’t thank you enough for that. But we have to _take him down._ We have to win this war, and I am a key part in it. We have to fight, and we have to keep to the promise we made to Dumbledore.”

Fleur’s eyes flicked between her own. She began to shake harder, for she still had not yet drawn breath. Hermione leaned in towards her, and let a shaky breath wash over her lips before she closed the space between them. Fleur melted under her. An exhale rushed over Hermione’s skin, but the tremors picked up again stronger than before. Her grip tightened, her arms constricting around Hermione, crushing her against her chest.

“I’ve been fighting beside you for months,” she whispered softly. “I can’t be expected to just let you go again…”

“Then wait for me.” Hermione offered. “Wait for me to finish this little piece, and I’ll call for you to join me again. It’ll be over soon, I promise you. It’ll be all over soon.”

Fleur tucked her face into her neck, her breaths still shaky and uneven.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hermione sighed, sniffled, and wiped at her eyes again. “I didn’t want to face the reality myself. I thought I could change Harry’s mind, but he’s loyal to his promise. I’m so sorry, Fleur…”

The Veela didn’t reply.

 

 

For several hours, they sat in the dark hallway holding one another. Soon, ‘I love you’ was uttered just as often as ‘I’m sorry’ was. ‘I promise’ and ‘one day’ followed suit. Neither had an appetite, but given the next morning they would face, they forced food down their throats, no matter how thick it felt. That night, they made love in a desperate frenzy, clinging to each other and to every moment they spent together, unwilling to let an opportunity pass by. Promises were reaffirmed, praises and offerings exchanged, and prayers lifted to every god.    

When morning came, it was with the same melancholy, the previous mornings’ joy absent. They woke far earlier than usual, beating the sun and birds alike. Fleur packed them a basket of breads, meats and cheeses, and Bill’s old tent since they’d lost theirs to the Snatchers. With a sad smile, Hermione rose to her tiptoes to kiss the Veela again before she dressed in a black, laced dress and boots. Fleur didn’t ask any questions, nor gave any remark. She hugged Harry close, squeezing him with all the strength she could muster. She gave the same to Ron, and promised she would look after his family until they were called to join them. When she took Hermione into her arms for the final time, she was incredibly unwilling to loosen her hold. The lioness had no objection to being held so tight, and squeezed the Veela back as she confessed love over and over in soft, choked whispers. When she pulled back to look into her eyes, she was surprised by what she saw.

A hard resolve had settled there, despite her tears, and determination had steeled her posture. She was unmoving under Hermione’s hands, and looked battle-ready despite her tear-streaked face. The Phantom was returning, shedding her skin of comfort and care for the well-worn mask of fierce determination and power. She wiped her tears away a final time, and no more rolled over her cheeks. Ice had frozen in her gaze, and even the temperature of the room had dropped to match.

“I will come the moment you call,” she said softly.

“I’ll call the moment I can.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you. All my soul.”

“All my soul.”

Upon Hermione’s request, Fleur went back into the house, and did not look out again. The lioness tipped a vial of Polyjuice, containing the hair of Bellatrix Lestrange, pulled from her sweater after they’d escaped, and took up the vile woman’s form. After Ron’s appearance had been altered, it was with great reluctance that she hid Fleur’s rosewood wand away in the depths of her robes, and gripped the curved, hateful walnut wand. It seemed to resent her just as much as she resented it, and sat heavy and cumbersome in her hand. With a last look at the house, and a last prayer for Fleur, she left the protection of the Fidelius Charm and the Veela wards, and joined hands with Ron, Harry and Griphook, where they were rendered invisible by the Cloak, and Disapparated to Diagon Alley.

 

 

Fleur was restless for hours. She paced all around the house, took Luna and Dean to Aunt Muriel’s, and set about whatever proactive measures she could. She packed away all her things and set them beside the door. She did the same with Bill’s most important documents, items, and necessities. She set more wards and strengthened others. She offered sacrifice.

She tried to sleep, but found the idea impossible, and ended up lying surrounded by Hermione’s scent with her eyes glued to the ceiling. She wished she could do more. She wished she could help. She wished she had broken the lioness’s instructions and followed her anyway. But a move like that could have been deadly.

Instead, she fiddled with the radio. Noisome static issued for the entire time she cleaned the parlor and kitchen, for lack of anything else to do.

It wasn’t until sunset that the lioness came. She bounded in silently, a silvery mist in the orange light, and Hermione’s voice issued forth in a disembodied tone.

“Gather up everyone who can fight and come to Hogwarts, though the Hog’s Head!” and the lioness melted to shadow.

Fleur, struck in a daze, recovered quickly and called out to Bill. Barely sparing enough time to delegate the task of rounding up the others, she Apparated away and threw the Hog’s Head door open. She entered without preamble, and demanded entrance to Hogwarts. Aberforth Dumbledore took in her appearance with surprise, but let her pass wordlessly. A picture guarded a tunnel, through which she sprinted and burst into a strange room filled with hammocks and bloodied, bruised students.

She stood, dazed and rooted, her eyes owlish as she looked around. Those nearest to her let out indignant squawks of disbelief and surprise upon seeing her, but she gave no token to having heard or seen them at all. Her focus was completely captured by the room itself. The Room of Requirement. Where she’d taught the members of the D.A. Where she saw Hermione’s intellect flare upon learning what had been kept from her, and where she watched Harry flourish as a teacher and instructor. Where her Patronus and Hermione’s had first nuzzled one another affectionately. Where she’d had her first kiss under mistletoe. Where the Death Eaters had entered the school with deadly intentions.  

And now she was back again, although this Fleur was far different from the one who’d last stood in this room.

Neville broke her from her trance.

“Fleur? Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!” he exclaimed, one eye half swollen shut.

Slowly, she returned his stare. “They don’t have the strength to take me out, Neville.”

He smiled widely, and clapped her shoulder. “Damn right! Let’s go, I think Hermione went this way.”

“Please, quiet down!” Harry’s voice echoed over the drone of the other’s, and presently, he came into view as Fleur navigated around bodies. Without question or hesitation, she took her place at Hermione’s side, grim and dour as she gripped her hand. The lioness tucked herself firmly against her, nestled into her form, and kept her hold tight.

“What happened at Gringotts?” a voice piped excitedly. Fleur turned incredulously to Hermione. She’d guessed, given all the time they’d spent with Griphook, but to have it confirmed was unnerving.

“Did you really break out of there on a dragon?”

“What was so important there?”

“That’s not important now!” Harry thundered, one hand clapping his scar. Fleur knew the sign too well, and her anxiety mounted. She gripped Hermione tighter, unwilling to allow the smallest space to form between their bodies. Wordlessly, Harry stared between the lioness and Ron, and with a pained expression given to Hermione, finally nodded.

Without skipping a beat, Hermione turned tail and raced to the door, tugging Fleur along behind her.

“Hermione!” Fleur whispered as she collided with students. “What are you doing?”

“Please, come with me,” she said, halting so suddenly the Veela’s chest pressed into her back. “I can’t explain—I promise you when this is over, I’ll tell you everything—but I need you to come with me, to do as I say even if I can’t tell you why.” She turned to lock eyes with her mate, her expression pained and desperate. “Please, Fleur.”

“I’ll follow you.” She returned without hesitation.

The lioness smiled warmly at her, before the expression died from her face and a stern decorum took place. “Hogwarts has been horribly compromised. Anyone you don’t know, don’t trust them, don’t let them see you. We’re going to a very special place. A very secret place. A terrible thing is going to happen there, but you cannot give in to the pain it brings. Most likely, it’ll be directed to me, and if I fall, I need you to finish it. Do you understand?”

“Fall? Hermione—”

“I won’t die, Fleur,” the lioness rushed, her words clipped for time. “Please promise me.”

The Veela glanced back and forth between her eyes, and nodded once. “Always.”

Hermione nodded and drew a breath before she turned and raced away, Fleur at her heels. Their steps were silent against the flagstones, Hermione well-practiced with running in silence, and Fleur barefooted as she’d been taught. Together, they ran down the corridors, and saw, for a fleeting moment, a duel between McGonagall and Snape. Though she had a million questions, Fleur remained silent, doing her best to draw breath as evenly as possible. Once they reached the third floor, Hermione ducked into a bathroom, and sealed the door behind Fleur.

The Veela found herself being claimed, desperation heavy in Hermione’s kiss and breath. She found arms strong about her, squeezing her, melding with her, unwilling to let her go easily. She gave in readily, and drank in everything the lioness had to offer her.

The embrace was short, but left their lips swollen and glossy, their movements quick and nimble. With a great sigh, Hermione detached herself, and approached a sink. There, she leaned forward, and spoke in a strange language Fleur had never heard of. The sink before her shifted in its place, and lowered to reveal an opening, through which Hermione dauntlessly entered. Fleur followed without hesitation.

A long, narrow corridor stretched out before them, and Hermione broke into a run again. Taking long, leaping strides, they reached a door, to which Hermione spoke the strange language again, and it opened for them. A hallway lay before them now, a waterway of sorts with strange sculptures carved out of the stone surrounding them. An incredibly large snake skeleton ran nearly the length of the room, and Hermione approached it quickly. She snapped off two of the largest fangs, and passed them to Fleur. The Veela took it without question, and Hermione seemed to take a breath of relief.

“Remember what I said, Fleur,” she began, rummaging through her beaded bag. “If I fall, finish it.” From the bag, she drew a handsome golden cup. “Get ready, love.”

She carefully set the cup on the floor, and reached behind her for the basilisk fang. The moment her fingers curled around it, black smoke issued forth from the cup. It engulfed both Veelas, and displayed a horrible story. Fleur found herself immobile as she watched a shadowy, smoky version of herself materialized from the cup. She crawled forward, clawed hands reaching for Hermione, her eyes black.

 _“Don’t you know what you’ve done?”_ Her voice rasped out, a hiss more than words. _“This is what you made me! I’ve died! Don’t you know what happens to those who’ve died and returned?”_

Hermione’s eyes went blank. The creature, for what else could she be, smiled grimly as the lioness gave in to her. Behind blank eyes, she saw everything. Every person who fell victim to Fleur’s merciless hand. Every drop of blood she spilled. She watched as Fleur kicked in skulls and tore throats open, as she called the breath from lungs and let them suffocate, as she demanded the water in their blood to freeze. She saw how the thrill of the hunt and kill engulfed the Veela, and dragged her under. She saw just how many nights she spent wide awake, the need so great. She saw how easily the instinct came to her.

_“You see? This is what you made me! This is what I am. There is no humanity left. There’s nothing left. Everything you’ve seen has been a lie. Every loving touch; deception. How could I ever forgive you? How could I ever love you again? All this has been is a lie, to make you comfortable before I move in to kill. It would only be fair. You killed me. Why shouldn’t I return the favor?”_

Hermione had begun to shake, the basilisk fang forgotten on the floor beside her. Tears were rolling over her cheeks, her breaths ragged and shallow. The creature looked all too pleased.

_“To be so weak, Hermione. Even your mind has abandoned you the same as you abandoned me. To think you used to be so bright, so strong. What happened? I thought perhaps, I’d finally have a challenge. How disappointing…”_

It was over as quickly as it started. One moment, the shadowy creature was there, ready to strike, her fangs bare and her smoke rushing from empty eye sockets, then she was gone, replaced by a creature whose eyes were blue instead of black. Whose skin was pale instead of ashen. Who was kneeling on the wet floor, a basilisk fang held in one trembling hand, the cup impaled on it. 

Fleur was panting, overwhelmed and surprised by the strength of the curse. She looked beseechingly at Hermione, where the lioness looked back her, an expression of hesitance and fear pulling at her features. Finally, she moved, and curled into Fleur’s form.

The Veela sighed, and held her close, gently stroking her back. How could that curse have known so much? Nearly everything it showed was true. Her malice and merciless killing had not been exaggerated.

“I’d never want to hurt you,” Fleur murmured softly against her hair.

Hermione nodded into her neck. “I know,” she paused to sniffle. “I know. That’s what these bloody things do. They lie.”

Fleur clenched her jaw and said nothing for a long moment.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked softly. 

“I think so,” Hermione returned, pressing a kiss to Fleur’s cheek. “Come on, there’s still more we have to do,”

“More?” Fleur asked, concern making her expression.

“There’s one more object that we need to find and destroy, like the cup,” Hermione said, wiping at her eyes. “And we have to destroy them as soon as possible, because they mean a great deal to _him_ and he’s on his way here.”

 

The two raced back to the Common Room to find Harry had gone to Ravenclaw Tower with Luna, in search of some other object. Just as they were on their way to the tower, McGonagall’s Patronus appeared before them, and from the silvery feline, her voice implored them to return to the Great Hall. Reluctantly, they obeyed, and joined in the gathering masses. One of the windows overlooking the lake had been completely busted out, and the scent of magic was still thick in the air. The four huddled close together, eyes locked on McGonagall.

“Evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey.” McGonagall was saying. “Prefects, when I give the word, organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.”

Ernie Macmillian stood up from the Hufflepuff table, defiance in his poise. “And if we want to fight, professor?”

There was a smattering of applause and agreement through the Hall.

“If you are of age, you may stay.” She said gravely, hating the words as they left her mouth. “We have already placed protection around the castle, but it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects—”

Her final words were drowned out as another voice echoed throughout the Hall. It was high, cold, and clear. There was no mistaking to whom it belonged.

“I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.

“Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.”

Silence enveloped them again, pounding against their eardrums as they looked between one another, as if to affirm that others had heard the words as well. Harry swallowed loudly, and for a long moment, no one moved.

“But he’s there!” a voice yelled suddenly. Pansy Parkinson’s finger was pointing directly at Harry where he stood close to Hermione. “Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

Fleur, though she wasn’t sure when he’d arrived, moved in front of Harry and Hermione, her nostrils flared and her stance deadly. Those who had not yet seen her drew back, and whispers of ‘she should be dead’ fluttered around. The Phantom bared her teeth slightly, her eyes narrowed.

Almost as instantaneously, the Gryffindors rose from their seats, and put Harry at their backs, staring down at Pansy with steel eyes. A number of Ravenclaws joined them, and a larger group of Hufflepuffs took places in front of him, too. Finally, several grim-lipped Slytherins left their table, and stood in defense of Harry. Each had drawn wands held ready, unspoken challenges made the air hard to breathe.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson.” McGonagall said shortly in a clipped voice. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of the unwilling and underage students could follow.”

Slowly, the four tables emptied. The Slytherins that had joined the others remained steadfast, as they all were of age and had been taught by Harry during Umbridge’s reign, and were invited to sit with the other Houses after all the others had exited the Hall.

“Potter,” said McGonagall, looking very stern. _“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?”_

“Oh, right,” Harry mumbled, still overwhelmed, and burst into action. Hermione and Fleur, without waiting for him to beckon them, easily kept pace with him and he sprinted down the Hall, Ron’s loud footfalls beating the flagstones behind them.

“I know what the diadem looks like and where it is,” Harry panted, climbing the staircase. “No one in living memory has seen it in centuries, but the ghosts have. You know the Grey Lady? She’s Ravenclaw’s _daughter._ And he charmed her into giving him the diadem. And he hid it where everyone hides their things.”

Hermione’s jaw went slack. “Of course.”

They ducked though a winding passageway, and emerged in front of the Room of Requirement. It was empty except for Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly witch wearing a moth-eaten hat, whom was easily recognized as Neville’s grandmother.

“Ah, Potter,” she said as if she’d been waiting for him. “You can tell us what’s going on.”

“Is everyone okay?” Ginny and Tonks asked together.

“As far as we know,” Harry panted. “Are there still people in the passageway to the Hog’s Head?”

“I was the last to come through,” said Mrs. Longbottom. “I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?”

“He’s fighting,” Hermione answered.

“Naturally,” said the old lady proudly, standing her full height. “Excuse me, I must go and assist him.” With surprising speed she trotted off toward the stone steps.

“I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother’s?” Fleur asked softly, uncertainly as she had not seen her best friend in so long.

“I couldn’t stand not knowing… she’ll look after him.” With one stride, she closed the space between her body and Fleur’s, and wrapped the Veela in a tight embrace. “We have a lot to catch up on once this is over,” she said with a chuckle, her voice watery beside the Veela’s ear. Fleur returned her squeeze, and nodded stiffly. “Have you seen Remus?” she asked, pulling away from Fleur.

“We was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds—”

She nodded, and with an anguished look, sped away for the battle.

“Ginny, we need you to leave too, just for a bit. Then you can come back in.”

Ginny looked relieved to leave her sanctuary, and followed Tonks.

“No, you have to come back in—”

“She won’t listen, Harry,” Ron murmured. “Let’s just do it.”

As soon as they exited the Room, the cacophony of battle filled their ears again. Harry made three quick strides before the door again, and another materialized. This time, when they entered, it was into a room the size of a cathedral with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built of objects hidden by thousands of long-gone students.

Harry scanned the room for a moment, gathering his wits. “I think it’s down here…”

Together, they passed the stuffed troll and the Vanishing Cabinet Malfoy had mended last year with disastrous consequences, and scores of other contraband hidden by students. Old, Muggle magazines, cases of cigars and beer, even a hookah and glass bong. Fred and George seemed to have left a bit of merchandise for safekeeping, for a box of Puking Pastilles lay, hardly dusty, on a spindle-legged table.

 _“Accio Diadem!”_ Harry called, with no success. “Gringotts all over again…” he murmured softly. “Let’s split up. Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely somewhere near here…”

They nodded, and separated, except for Fleur and Hermione, who refused to let the other out of sight. Harry and Ron’s footfalls were loud in the Veelas’ ears as they ran down the aisles, a stark comparison to Fleur and Hermione’s silent tread. They sprinted deep into the labyrinth, around the towering piles of brooms, chairs, books, weapons, and crates. Fleur stopped suddenly in her tracks, scanning her surroundings with dilated senses. The atmosphere had changed, altered by some unknown, unseen threat. It was charged with electricity as if unsummoned magic was choked by anticipation.

“Hold it, Potter.” The voice sounded from far away, reaching their ears as though it were a whisper.

The Veelas turned tail and began the run back. Crashes and curses filled the room with sound, and Draco’s voice lifted over the noise, screaming about the diadem.

“He knows,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. They burst around a corner, and the lioness let a curse fly. It narrowly missed Crabbe’s head, only because Malfoy had pulled him out of the way.

“Oh, the Mudblood’s ba—” color drained from his face as he took in the image of Fleur Delacour. The Veela’s stride had slowed, and she now took slow, measured steps towards him.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” He managed at last, a distinct waver in his voice.

“I’m not. But your father’s colleges are, and by my hand.”

Malfoy snorted, and lifted his mother’s wand higher in attempt to quell his fear. “You have no wand.”

“I don’t need one.” He threw a crippling curse at her. She carelessly waved it away, and it blasted through a teetering wall of ill-assorted items. Ron cried out from a short distance away, and Harry ran to help him. Goyle tried to stun him, but was deflected by Hermione’s quick draw. She took her place at Fleur’s side, the rosewood wand held tight in her fingers.

Curses flew instantly. Every shade of red and green lit up the dusty room, Fleur’s hands burned as she summoned fire. Despite her spells, Crabbe let out a loud roar, and sweltering heat issued from his wand as he, too, summoned flames. Neither wind nor water held it bay as it grew out of control, licking up the towers of junk and surging towards them.

“Fiendfyre.” Hermione gasped, choked for air as the smoke stole it from it. “We have to go! Harry! Run! The fire will kill it, just GO!”

The Veelas sprinted, throwing curses over their shoulders as the three behind them continued their assault. Harry struggled to free Ron, for when a wall had fallen, his leg had been trapped beneath a bookcase. Hermione helped heave him out, while Fleur took up defensive spells to keep the three back, who soon ceased their efforts to harm them in favor of outrunning the heat. Soon, the fire had reached them, taking up the forms of enormous animals, spreading fire wherever they trod.

“Harry, there are brooms in the corner, grab them!” Fleur thundered. He obeyed, and threw one to Ron. “Now go! I’ll take Hermione!”

She let her shield die, and evaporated into light, just as she had at the Department of Mysteries. She gripped Hermione tight in her arms and took to the sky, hurtling through the flames to reach the door. A massive explosion reverberated in their ears as a blood-chilling scream broke—the fire had reached the Horcrux.

Fleur burst through the door, and solidified again, tumbling across the floor. She curled her body around Hermione’s and protected her from most of the impact, though her head struck the ground rather hard as a result. The Veela stood up quickly, despite the stars in her vision, and raised her hands again as Harry and Ron followed her, Malfoy and Goyle mounted with them on their brooms. They crashed in a similar manner, sprawling out across the floor in a heap of panting, singed bodies. As soon as the tail of the second broom had cleared, Fleur threw the door shut on the fire as it desperately tried to leap out.

“Crabbe…” Malfoy whimpered softly.

“He’s dead.” Ron said harshly. “Though lucky for us, it still killed it…”

Malfoy didn’t reply, instead remained where he was on the floor with Goyle, hopeless, defeated. Neither of them held wands. Fleur studied them for a moment through narrowed eyes before she deemed them harmless, so lost in their sorrow, and looked back to Hermione. She drew a deep sigh, and let it out in a rush.

“Is it over?” she asked softly. “Is your mission finished yet?”

Hermione met her eyes in a slow movement, as if it took too much energy to look up. “No. No, it’s not. But we’re so close now.”

“What now?”

“We have one more object to destroy,” Harry murmured. “One more, and then I can finally finish this.”

“Tell me. What do you need? What can I do?”

“Kill the snake.”

“What else? _Who_ else do you need me to kill for your cause?”

“Every coward that hides behind a mask.”

The Veela nodded, stern and solemn. Hermione was terrified by the dour mask Fleur now wore, a perfect replica of the Fleur the Horcrux had shown her. The Phantom who’d hunted and killed without hesitation or mercy. The Phantom who’d returned from the dead with an unquenchable bloodlust that would have consumed her had it not been for Kingsley’s foresight and Bill’s kindness, and eventually, finally, Hermione’s return. Hermione’s redemption.

But that Phantom was back, stiff and lethal as they had never seen her before. She was solid, unmoving, battle-ready. Hermione drew a deep and breath and closed the space separating her from the creature she loved so dearly, choking down the fear the Horcrux had instilled.

When Hermione spoke next, it was with a steel resolve. “Let’s finish this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "A Dream Within a Dream"


	25. Death has Reared Himself a Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "The City in the Sea"

Dueling broke out around them on the first floor. Death Eaters had penetrated Hogwarts with deadly intentions, and already had taken several victims. Death was amongst them, choosing neither side to protect, but reaped a bountiful harvest from both.

The Phantom was anything but hesitant. She threw herself into battle with all the strength she had, spells flying from her hands with a deadly, practiced ease; the itch, the urge, surged back like a powerful tide. Most she encountered lost their lives due to the surprise of seeing her alive, frozen on the spot just by the sight of her. Some shouted that she should be dead. Others thought they could try to kill her again. None came close.

Hermione was just as ruthless. She’d thrown all passion for preserving life to the wind and fought to kill. She was graceful, she was lithe, and she was lethal. Dancing and twirling a dangerous dance, she fought her assailants in twos and threes, switching between defensive and offensive charms with confidence despite deep-seated fear. These were not his strongest or most talented followers, but pups, their paws overlarge and clumsy in their haste. The real wolves had yet to join the chaos.

The two Veelas, after killing everything in their path, sprinted down the ruined corridors, leaped over broken pillars and fallen statues, and an enormous blast sent them sprawling to the floor.

Blonde hair was stained with blood as Fleur struggled to her feet, disorientated as her balance fled, lost somewhere in the uneven fluid in her cochlea. She staggered to Hermione, and lifted a bough of wood from her midsection, giving her enough room to wiggle out. Fleur let it drop with a thud, and shook her head gently, blood now trickling down her cheek.

“No…no, no, no…”

They made their way towards the sound, and the first real brush of Death touched them. Fred Weasley lay dead on the flagstones, the ghost of a laugh frozen on his features. Percy was on his knees beside his brother, tears streaking his face. Harry was desperately trying to move Fred back into the castle, to keep him safe from further harm, but Percy was more than unwilling to let go of him. Fleur, still dizzy, helped Harry, ducking low to avoid stray curses, and hid the body in a niche where a suit of armor had stood before.

Percy finally let go of Fred when a hooded figure ran past.

“ROOKWOOD!” he bellowed, and charged after him.

Hermione physically restrained Ron, and forced him into a passageway behind a tapestry, beckoning Harry and Fleur to follow.

“Ron, we can’t, not yet! We have to find the snake, remember? One last Horcrux! We’ll have to fight to get to the snake, but please keep that in mind!” she was crying too, for tears stained her cheeks, but she was desperate to control Ron, to keep him from making horrible decisions that would leave him dead.

“Horcrux?” Fleur whispered, terrified that she’d heard right.

The lioness gave an apologetic look, but did not answer her. “Harry, look into his thoughts, find him, find the bloody snake.”

He closed his eyes at her command, and even through the shadows, Fleur could see his eyes flicking behind their lids.     

He came back to himself with a jolt, his eyes flying open.

“The Shrieking Shack. Snake’s with him, but it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He just sent Lucius Malfoy to go find Snape.”

“He’s not even fighting?” Fleur asked incredulously, a snarl marring her features.

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight; he thinks I’m going to go to him.”

“But, Harry, why would you do that?” The Veela asked, her expression a mixture of extreme confusion and the snarl she’d given at Voldemort’s cowardice.

“He knows you’re after them,” Hermione said softly. “And he’s keeping Nagini close to him, so to kill the snake…”

“I have to go to him.”

“I’ll go.” Fleur said at once.

“Fleur—”

“Give me this, Harry. Let me help you.” Her voice was stern, her demeanor solid. She wouldn’t back down. Not by Harry’s command, nor Hermione’s plea. The Veela’s trademarks were proudly displayed over her body in talons and fangs, and she looked more fearsome than Harry had ever seen her. No one would dare attack her and think they could live, even if she did stand without a wand. He doubted a wand would be able to deal the damage her hands did anyway.

“Fleur, you don’t under—”

Two Death Eaters charged into their hiding place. With a rough order, barked from Fleur, the three ran for cover, as the Veela engaged in a heavily outweighed duel. Harry threw the Cloak over himself, Ron and Hermione, and disappeared in time to see the first curse miss Fleur by inches.

The Veela was unmoving in her place, hands held out like claws. One of the Death Eaters laughed at her.

“Pretty little poppet without a wand, eh? You make it too easy, lovely.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked softly, her eyes locked with his.

“I don’ suppos’ that matters much.” He brandished his wand, and Fleur responded with an almost casual wave. His curse flew away harmlessly.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Hit her!” the other yelled, sending her own curse. Again, Fleur deflected it.

“Oh, but it does matter,” the Phantom replied, her voice icy as she stepped closer. “You see, I have hunted your people. I, single-handedly, have thinned your numbers. I, without word or wand, have become a thing of legend amongst you.” The temperature dropped around them, ice licking up the walls of the castle and spreading across the floor. The Death Eaters’ breaths had quickened, for it now came in puffs.  

“You can’t be…”

“I am. Fleur Delacour. Daughter of Apolline, daughter of Asteria, chief of the Veelas of the First Mother, and the Phantom of the Death Eaters. I suggest you turn and run now.”

Neither of them gave up their stance, though they shook violently from either the chill or fear.

“Fair enough.”

Spells took flight almost instantly. Though they were intensely cold, fear and harsh chemicals ran rampant in their blood, and that kept them alive, if only for a little while longer. But soon, they too fell to Fleur’s hand, and joined the other fatalities that lay on Hogwarts’ grounds.

Shortly after they’d hit the ground, the Veela joined the masses engaged in combat in the courtyard, sparing no thought to the three Gryffindors. With a quick flick of her wrist, the silver lioness charged through bodies of friends and foes, her path set for the ancient Veela forests of France.

Another Death Eater engaged her, just as Hermione ran by her. She delivered the killing blow in the same motion she followed the lioness. Together, they covered ground quickly, slowing occasionally to let Harry and Ron catch up or to protect themselves from spiders or the giants’ uncoordinated clubs.

Enormous shapes fell from the sky above, and bursts of flame lit up the darkened world of the forest around them. Shamin opened his jaws and let out a booming call, setting fire to the giant as it began to swat at him. Alkaia joined him in his assault, freeing the Veelas to run after Harry and Ron where they had fallen a distance in front of them. Hermione immediately recognized the culprit. 

Black, ragged cloaks billowed in nonexistent wind, gray, thin, dead fingers reached out from their sleeves. Feeble flickers of silver light issued from Harry and Ron’s wands, but no great animal leaped forth.

“Fleur!” Hermione called, the rosewood wand already poised to cast.

The Veela followed Hermione’s wand, and lifted her hand. Two lionesses leaped into the air, roaring as they charged the offending dementors. Behind them, a hare, boar, and fox followed, chasing the cold, dead creatures away from the two fallen.

“Come on, Harry. Think of something happy,” Luna said softly upon reaching him. “We’re all here with you, fighting. Come on, now…”

Feebly, Harry lifted his wand. His stag materialized almost reluctantly, but after it had fully formed, it cantered around them in a circle, throwing his antlers towards the dementors.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” Luna said, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry sighed, standing again.

“Can’t thank you enough,” Ron said as Seamus and Ernie helped him to his feet. “Just saved our—”

Another giant, this one much larger than the last, thundered out of the forest, striking the ground with a tree-sized club.

“RUN!” Harry yelled, but they didn’t need telling. They scattered, taking long, leaping strides as they tried to outpace the monstrosity behind them. Luna, Ernie, and Seamus ran back to the battle, while the Veelas, Harry and Ron charged towards the Whomping Willow. Shamin and Alkaia were on the giant in seconds of hearing their screams, bloodthirsty and ruthless, though Alkaia was almost clumsy in combat as she struck.

With an expert flick of her wrist, the lioness levitated a stone and touched a single knot on the old tree. It paused in its flailing, and the Harry, after a moment of hesitation, went into the tunnel, the other three following him.

The tunnel was much smaller than Hermione remembered. Four years ago, it had been nothing to crawl through, but now she had to squeeze down as much as she could, tucking her elbows underneath her chest and lying flat on her stomach to wiggle forward. The ground shook as the giant fell to the ground above them, as Shamin and Alkaia crowed in victory before they left to find other targets.

Blood was rushing in Hermione’s ears, every breath amplified tenfold as she was terrified Voldemort would hear them, or had heard the dragon’s call. Voices carried over the distance, muffled and disembodied, but easily recognizable all the same. Silently, she tapped Harry, and passed the Cloak to him. His head and back vanished before her eyes, but the sweltering heat did not recede. A small shaft of light appeared as Harry moved what appeared to be a crate blocking the exit, and the voices came clear.

“—my Lord, their resistance is crumbling—” Snape’s cool voice floated through the tunnel. He was speaking softly, as though his full attention was not on the conversation at hand. Voldemort cut him off.

“—and it is doing so without your help. Skilled wizard as though you are, Severus, I do not think it will make much difference now. We are almost there. Almost…”

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.”

A swishing of robes told the Veela Voldemort was moving with great purpose and precision. The light flickered briefly as he passed.

“I have a problem, Severus.”

“My Lord?”

“It does not obey me. It has not performed the extraordinary magic legend promised it would. I have only performed my usual magic. Nothing more. Could you imagine why that is, Severus?”

“I—I cannot, my Lord.”

Danger was potent. It filled the air with electricity, and made Fleur’s hair stand on end; intently, she listened with all her senses, and detected the harsh pheromones of fear.

“I have thought long and hard, Severus,” Voldemort continued, pacing leisurely around the room. “Do you know why I have called you back from battle?”

“No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter.”

“You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching others fall around him, for his sake, and he will want to stop it at any cost. He will come.”

“But my Lord, he could be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—”

“My instructions to my Death Eaters are explicitly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends, the more the better, but do not kill him. But it is not of Potter than I wished to speak, Severus. I wished to speak of you. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

Snape’s voice had begun to tremble. “My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you—”

“I have told you, no! My concern at the moment is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

He paused, presumably studying the Elder Wand in his hand.

“My wand of yew did everything I asked of it. Except kill Harry Potter. Twice, it failed me. Ollivander advised me to try a different wand, for the torture of the twin cores would not allow them to hurt one another so profoundly. But Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

“I—I don’t have explanation, my Lord.”

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, taken from Albus Dumbledore’s grave. And all this long night, I’ve sat here wondering, wondering why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform the magic legend says it must perform for its rightful owner… and I think I have the answer.”

Snape did not speak.

“While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine.”

Another word was whispered in a harsh hiss, and Nagini attacked. Snape screamed, and blood spurted from the severed artery, staining the floor under him as he fell, shaking, his hands unable to slow the blood loss as he clutched the wound at his neck. Wordlessly, Voldemort moved across the floor, and exited the shack. As soon as Harry felt he had a decent distance between him and the vile wizard, he shoved the crate aside and climbed into the room, and for reasons unknown to him, rushed to the dying man.

The other three followed wordlessly. Fleur did not attempt to heal his wounds, he did not beg for them to be mended. He simply stared at Harry as though he had expected his presence all along, no sign of hatred marring his features. From his eyes, whitish-blue tears poured as he looked at Harry, and in breathless rasps, he begged him to take them. Hermione conjured a flask, and every drop was collected by Harry’s shaking hand. With his last breath, Snape implored him to look at him, and when green eyes met black, an expression of pure tranquility settled in his eyes. A moment later, it was gone, the color completely drained from his face, and his blood stopped spurting, for every ounce stained the floor.

An odd feeling of sorrow settled on Harry. This was the man whom he had hated all his years at Hogwarts. This was the man who’d sold his parents and himself out to Lord Voldemort. But this was also the man who’d been badly hurt by his father’s cruelty. The little boy who’d befriended his mother, shown her that she wasn’t a freak, that he could do magic, too; the little boy who’d been bullied at school, forced into reclusion and a lonesome lifestyle after his best friend took up with his bully.

But no more than a few moments ago, he’d also been the man who’d begged to be the one to deliver him to Voldemort himself.

But, why had he been so insistent when he told Harry to take his tears? Why had they shed without shame? Why had peace finally smoothed the furrow from his brow upon meeting Harry’s eyes for a final time?

 Voldemort’s voice broke his train of thought.

“You have fought valiantly this night. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet, you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a precious loss and waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately.

“You have one hour. Dispose of your dead, and treat your injured.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have allowed your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the battle myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who had tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Harry’s face was drained of color.

“Stop, Harry,” Hermione pleaded, trying to meet his eyes. “You didn’t let them die, they fought willingly, they knew the risk. We’ll plan, we’ll figure something out, we’ll finish this—”

Harry had already begun to retreat, back down the tunnel. Fleur followed wordlessly, Hermione and Ron behind her. Once they emerged beneath the Willow, they sprinted back to the ruins of Hogwarts.

The castle sat in desolation. Huge chunks had fallen to piles of rubble, masonry and timber lay broken together. Hermione’s heart lurched in her chest. That castle had been her kingdom. That castle had been her home. She’d grown up within its walls, learned powerful magic, fallen in love—and how badly did she want her own children to inherit this home, this castle, this kingdom? How badly did she want to prowl the streets of Hogsmeade with them, show them the best hangouts, or shop for school supplies on Diagon? Or tell them the secrets she’d discovered in the library, where she’d soaked up history like she couldn’t bear to live without having read every word the room had to offer her? To tell them the story of their mother’s dauntless performance during the Triwizard, how she’d been so charming despite having gone so long without real human friendship? How she and their Uncle Harry had slipped out of so many narrow corners, up to no good despite her desperate attempts to keep them from mischief?

She would fight for that future, she decided, opening her stride as she neared the castle. She would fell anyone who stood in her, and her unconceived child’s way of that happy future.

Her footfalls slammed against the flagstones as she crossed the bridge, anger and rage seeping from every fiber of her being. This hot, seething wrath quickly fled her, however. As she took in the bodies that lay strewn about the courtyard, where just last year, she’d studied for her N.E.W.T.s. As she realized the sounds of battle had died, not an echo remained, but had been replaced by mournful wails of the living over their lost loved. Her pace slowed until she was barely lifting her feet. She could _feel_ Death. She could smell him. It wasn’t of rot and decay, it was far too early for that. But the pungent odor of fear still hung thick in the air, and a horrible emptiness gnawed at her stomach.

Fleur stood beside her, and placed a hand at the small of her back. Hermione jumped at the contact, and tucked herself against her Veela. Fleur’s expression portrayed everything she felt. Longing. Great sorrow. Deep-seated fear. Iron resolve. She drew a deep breath, and hesitantly made her way forward into the Great Hall, every inch of her demeanor screaming, _I hope all I love are well._

They both broke upon seeing the Weasley family gathered around Fred. Fleur, upon seeing Tonks and Remus laid out beside him, fell to her knees, clutching her best friend’s hand. They couldn’t catch up, now. They couldn’t share another drink together. They couldn’t remiss Moody’s antics and discuss whiskey. They couldn’t beg Teddy to say one of their names, and swear a gurgle from the boy was him answering the request for their own.

She gently cupped Tonks’ face in her hands, her tears splashing over the pallid, waxen skin. She was cool beneath her touch, and remained still. The Veela shook violently as she sobbed. She’d only given birth a mere week ago. She’d only been married the better part of a year. Even so, in death, Tonks looked peaceful, despite having such a small amount of time with her claimed happiness. She looked younger than Fleur had ever seen, the glow of motherhood still resting in the lines around her lips, no doubt carved there from the moment Teddy was placed in her arms.

Hermione came to her wordlessly. She held the Veela, her hold tight and unyielding, even as Fleur clutched her shoulders in a bruising grip. She knew why she held so tightly. She knew why she didn’t relent. She was her anchor, and the distraught Veela was very close to flying away. If she didn’t hold on to her, she’d be lost for sure.

Hermione cried into her hair as she rocked Fleur, whispering softly to her. So many had been lost. So very, very many. But despite the danger, the injured and the maimed demanded treatment, for if they were to die, they were to die fighting. Hermione had to credit her fellow students for their bravery and courage, even though some would find it foolish. Martyrdom has always been a double-edged sword.

Pomfrey was making rounds, and the house-elves had taken it upon themselves to pass water and sandwiches out to those would could stand to eat. They were few and far between.

Fleur stood suddenly, her back ramrod straight, though tears had not stopped. She helped Hermione to her feet, and approached the Weasleys. They offered their condolences, cried with them, then gave them their space. Another resolve had settled in Fleur, and met Pomfrey as she was coming though again, asking where she could help. Together, the two Veelas mended broken bones, closed jagged wounds, discovered their own wounds upon someone pointing out a blossom of crimson, previously unnoticed. They healed themselves and each other, and lost themselves in the work they performed, thankful for a distraction, a chance to build a wall of resistance until the battle was truly over. Until Harry won.

When every maimed warrior had been healed, Fleur stepped outside of the castle for air. Hermione followed her, hesitant to touch her, but unwilling to allow a space to form between their bodies. They looked out over the pitted earth, the scarred grounds from clubs and spells and pounding footfalls in silence.

“Have you seen Harry?” Fleur asked softly.

“No,” Hermione returned.

The Veela drew a breath and looked up at the moon. “The hour’s nearly up. He might have gone…”

“Don’t. I know what you’re thinking. Please, Fleur, don’t.”

Fleur made a rumbling noise and crossed her arms. “I’m going. Not to fight, not to interfere, just to look for him. Bring him back, if I find him.”

Hermione didn’t look pleased, but Fleur was resolute in her stance, in her words. The Veela she loved still had not yet returned, and the Phantom stood resolved before her. “Promise me that’s all you’ll do.”

“If I come across a Death Eater, they will die, but I do not go with the intention of hunting them.”

Hermione’s nostrils flared angrily. “Fleur.”

“This is what I learned, Hermione. This is what I became. Fighting it is like fighting instinct, or telling your heart not to beat. I’ll be quick, back before you know it. That, I promise you.”

Reluctantly, Hermione nodded. Fleur met her lips briefly, and ran for the forest. When she reached the tree line, she looked over her shoulder at Hogwarts. The moonlight sparkled on the calm, still waters of the saltwater inlets, and cast the kingdom by the sea in an eerie glow. The silhouette of a dragon crossed the sky, and disappeared into the trees. She nodded, more to the castle than to herself, and grit her teeth.

From the high bows of an ash tree, she watched silently. With the dark of night and thick branches of the tree, she was completely obscured from view, and took full advantage of her concealment. Despite Voldemort’s recall of his forces, a patrol was set up, presumably to watch for Harry, though there was no token to suggest he’d passed. A pair of stocky, masked wizards made their way near her perch, and she readied her body for attack.

When she leaped, her body stretched out, her hands easily clenching around the backs of their necks upon contact. They fell forward, their wands rolling away from them and became lost amongst fallen branches. They called desperately, and were abruptly silenced as the Veela commanded them quiet. When a few others arrived, heralded by the cries of their comrades, the Veela was safely concealed in the trees again.

She made her move once more, and again, she rendered them to a pile of bodies on the forest floor. Even with the latest cry, no others came for fear of her, and rightfully so. But the Veela did not return to the earth, choosing the trees over the ground for the protection offered. A rustling drew her attention, and she found another target. Though her vision was impaired, she found the neck of her prey easily through it, and before she delivered the killing blow, she saw exactly what she’d caught.

Aella studied her with a knowing expression, gently coaxing Fleur’s hands away from her throat when she saw recognition flash in her eyes, thankful that her cousin hadn’t resorted to using her legendary wandless magic in favor of her hands. Fleur nodded; a silent apology. Aella squeezed her shoulder gently, and set off on her own path, away from Fleur; the branches hardly moving as she leaped from tree to tree.

A sudden series of color stopped Fleur’s progress forward in the hunt. Reds and silvers lit up the forest several feet from where she perched, laughing and jeering echoing off the trees.

“Dead! The boy is dead at last!”

She left her stomach drop. No. No, impossible. That would mean…

With incredible speed, Fleur turned tail, and retraced her winding path through the forest and back to the castle. Hermione found her, harried and wild, her breathing uneven and her whole body emitting the foul odor of fear.

“Fleur? Where is he? Did you—”

“Harry Potter is dead.” Voldemort’s voice boomed out, his form appearing from the other side of the bridge. Hermione paled as her jaw dropped, as her eyes found Hagrid, tethered by chains, being pulled from the forest, holding Harry’s limp body. Even from a distance, she could smell the putrid rot from Voldemort’s withered soul. “He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.

“The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continued to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of your castle now, kneel before me, welcome your king into his kingdom, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

People filed out of the castle, some were crying, some limped, but all of them wore a uniform expression of rage and spite. They would not give up. They would not bow down. They would not give up their kingdom.

Their voices lifted to call Harry’s name, desperate to see some flicker of life to betray Voldemort’s words. There was nothing.

“SILENCE! It is over! Lay him down, Hagrid, at my feet where he belongs!”

The limp form of Harry Potter was gently lowered to the grass, lovingly sat by the gentle giant as tears cascaded from his eyes.

“You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” Ron roared from Hermione’s side, and his scream seemed to break the charm Voldemort had cast as their voices lifted once more in affront, challenging him. Another bang silenced them.

“He was killed trying to sneak out of the castle grounds. Killed while trying to save himself—”

Neville rushed forward and charged at Voldemort, his wand held high. The Dark Lord raised his own and wrought the boy to the ground.

“And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh. “Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Voldemort murmured, looking at Neville while he struggled to his feet, unarmed. “But you are pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” Neville spat.

“You show spirit and bravery and you come from noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“When hell freezes over.” Neville snarled.

“Very well,” said Voldemort, danger thick in his tone. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, on your head,” he said, his voice dropping, “be it.”

With a flick of his wand and object soared from the broken windows of Hogwarts, and landed evenly on Neville’s head.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone, won’t they, Neville Longbottom?” He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still. “Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to oppose me.” He flicked his wand again, and then the Sorting Hat upon his head burst into flames.

The warriors of Hogwarts broke the second Silencing Charm Voldemort had placed on them. Their voices lifted to shatter the night, their spells flying to Neville’s aid and to Voldemort’s attack. The earth shook as Grawp came crashing into view, calling Hagrid’s name as best he could as he bowled through Death Eaters.

Fleur leaped into the battle again with newfound vigor. Her lip curled high over her teeth, her voice laced with venom as she spit out curses, as spells flew from her hands. Her skin tightened, and for the second time in her life, feathers broke through.

She cried out, saliva leaping from her fangs, and she brought up her hands in front of her, and ripped Death Eaters apart. Blood splashed the night, severed limbs thumped to the ground and curdling screams followed their detachment. Her feathers bristled, striking blue against the dark night and splashes of blood. Her magic reached out on its own accord and tore minds to shreds as her hands did bodies.

Then, above all the chaos, Hagrid’s voice rose over them all.

“HARRY!” he shouted. “HARRY—WHERE’S HARRY?”

_Harry?_

She stole a glance to where Voldemort had stood, where Harry had lain defeated at his feet. The ground was empty, and gave no token to where the boy had gone.

Then, something else caught her eye. Something silver and ruby, a graceful arc through the air, and then Nagini’s great head soaring away from her body, the Sword of Gryffindor held tightly in both of Neville’s steady hands.

In front of her, centaurs charged the Death Eaters with sharp hooves and arrows, thestrals joined in with aerial attacks of their own. Shamin hit the ground beside her, roaring with all his strength as a burst of flame left his jaws.

“Go! Take to the sky, and let fire rain down on them!”

Again, the Horntail spread his wings and caught the wind, arcing over the Dark Lord’s troops with long bellows of rage and fire. Alkaia and several others joined him, some bore Veela riding upon their backs, and unleashed hell itself in streams of liquid fire.

They were being forced back into the castle as the Death Eaters surged forward, sweltering under the Horntail’s fire despite their charms. Fleur quickly changed her course and doubled around the wall of the castle, behind the ranks of Death Eaters. From the broken windows, she could see brilliant flashes of light as spells rebounded off one another, as they struck targets. She felt Voldemort’s wrath explode as Bellatrix screamed and fell. But she was not his last follower. Fleur had plenty more kills to make as the Horntails took guard at the doors to the castle, and she continued to make her way around.

Death followed in her wake, for she made a bountiful harvest. Her spells fell like a deadly rain upon her victims, and they in turn fell to litter the ground. But she didn’t use her magic alone. She flung a curse and collapsed a trachea with her hand in the same heartbeat. She sent ice flying as her heel landed hard against the skull of another. Her talons knotted themselves in greasy hair and jerked backwards so that forehead met knee.

In her trail, she left mangled bodies, impaled on ice and robbed of breath, with broken necks and fractured skulls. She was ruthless. She was fearless. And she was finished.

Shamin nuzzled her gently when she reached him, bodies twitching behind her as life fled them. She was panting, her face streaked with dirt and sweat, her hands burning from the magic that still lingered on the surface. Inside, she could hear Harry’s duel with Voldemort, and turned away. He would prevail. She had no doubt about that. And she could not interfere, even if she wished to assist him. Some deep part of her knew, had always known, that at this moment, she could not help him. It was him, and Voldemort, as the prophecy had said in the Department of Mysteries. But she could still do something to help.

“Circle the perimeters, fend off the giants. If anyone else is still hiding there, kill them, and bring their soiled carcasses back here.” She ran a loving hand down the Horntail’s muzzle. He took off and soared, the others disappearing into the trees as they too continued the search. She drew a deep breath, and the feathers fell from her body, replaced by dirty, sweaty skin and shod by torn clothes. Her teeth and talons remained, however, bloodied and streaked with dirt.

She had her own security to pull in the dragon’s absence, however, and didn’t bother taking the time to clean herself. Again, she took to the wall of the castle, and scanned her surroundings. Nothing but the breeze disturbed her senses, not a stray scent, or sound to make her weary of moving forward. She found the bodies of those who’d been on patrol when Harry was called into the Forbidden Forest, untouched since she’d left. She found bodies of Hogwarts’ students. They were two boys, perhaps fifth years. One, a Slytherin who’d refused to leave and chose instead to fight gallantly, clutching the hand of a Ravenclaw pupil. Their wands were snapped and thrown to their chests, but their grip on one another’s hands were so strong it would not be broken even in death, for Fleur had to lift them both at the same time as delivered them back to their kingdom. She returned to where she’d found them, and continued her search.

Then, something changed. The air, previously charged with tension and anxiety, suddenly became easy to breathe. Suddenly, there wasn’t taint or danger anymore.

The earth beneath the pads of her toes seemed to relax, the trees breathing the fresh breeze that whispered through them. She looked around. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the sky and land, stars twinkling overhead. Woodland fairies peeped out from their trees; eyes alight and wings sparkling, ducking back when they saw the Veela.

Fleur turned, and sprinted back to the castle. There, on the ruined remains of the stone bridge, lay Voldemort’s defeated body, crumpled and pathetic as someone had brought the body out as if to prove he was in fact no more. As if to prove he, too, was nothing but a man.

It was over… She was alive. She would live on, breathing clean, untainted air, raising children in happiness with Hermione on new, revived soil.

Hermione.

Frantically, Fleur searched for the brunette, a wide smile lifting her lips as the Phantom was crushed, destroyed, by this surge of happiness. She forgot everything she’d just done. Every ounce of pain she’d delivered, every life she’d handed over to Death, the blood on her hands, gone. Nonexistent. Not even history. Not even memory.

But then, she saw the others, how they mourned and cried, she realized how selfish she was. A young Hufflepuff girl had fallen on the ground before her, a trail of blood smeared on her lower lip. She lay face down, no movement betrayed breath, if any breath was drawn. A gentle touch confirmed that she had died hours ago.

The Veela bowed her head briefly before rolling the girl to her back, using a discarded handkerchief to clean the dirt, dust, and blood from her face gingerly. For a moment, she studied the brown eyes of the deceased. They were dark, like chocolate, but a film was robbing them of color. Her cheeks, though slightly flecked with blood, appeared to be rosy, but they too were becoming waxen and discolored as life fled even from the smallest cells of her body. The girl’s robe lay a few meters from her, abandoned sometime during the battle. Fleur lifted it and placed it over her face after manually closing her eyes. No one had yet to stumble upon her, and with another soft prayer, the Veela rose up from the ground and continued her search.

Many around her did the same and cared for the deceased whose family and friends had yet to find them; others held lost loves to their chests, weeping into hair and flesh alike. The bridge was strewn with bodies, a sepulcher of sorts. There was an immense absence of joy for the only death they wished, and that joy would not come for many years, when their children read about this holocaust in their classes, nothing more than a page in history. Instead, the sorrow was as thick in the air as it was hollow in chests and hearts. Weights pressed upon every pair of shoulders, so psychologically powerful it crippled them physically.

But, although the war was won, the battle wasn’t quite finished. Giants charged out of the forest, breaking the dragon’s defenses as cacophony rose up to deafen the somber quite. Shamin swopped low, massive flames taking the target head on before it collapsed. Alkaia, however, was not as experienced as her father in combat and in one fatal blow, a giant’s club brought her to the ground like a swatted fly. Shamin roared out, and attacked the beast with everything he had, driving it backwards into its fellows. His daughter did not rise.

Through all this chaos, one last Death Eater had remained undetected. Through the midst of the crowds of sobbing people, over flashes of fire and dragon’s roars, a final flash of green light shot through the air; the Veela watched as the target fell, the impact it made with the stone reverberated in her ears. A lightning-fast red streak pursued the killer, but Fleur had no concern to either of them any longer.

Every process in her body halted. Her mind fled, for once knowing what her heart did not. The intelligent glint of her eye faded, dulled. Her pupils dilated further, the cat-like slit now opened so wide they appeared almost human. Her heart stuttered, failing her momentarily. She ran, with no direction or intellect, her body relying on instinct alone. 

The Veela crashed through stone and rubble, blood seeping from her wounds, but she never felt an ounce of pain. Her knees struck the ground hard, her hands reached out, desperate to grasp, her eyes wide and terrified. A woman’s body lay still on the stone before her, uncomfortably positioned. The Veela’s hands shook as they touched the brunette’s pale, upturned cheek. With a tender force, she turned the girl’s face to her.

A somber, animalistic wail erupted from the Veela, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her body fell over her mate’s, screaming into Hermione’s warm chest. She clutched at the long, dark tresses, memorizing the silk between her fingers. Her hands cupped the lioness’s cheeks, shanking as another scream tore through her larynx. She looked deeply into the open hazel eyes of her dearest, and upon seeing no light or life there, she beat her hands against the stone beneath her in hope to find herself thrashing away from a nightmare. Blood seeped from her battered hands, but her body was numb, its pain far overshadowed by the anguish of her soul tearing.

No soul dared interrupt her misery, her mournful cries filling the night, other voices combined to make a choir of painful shrieks. The empty sky shouted back at them, multiplying their misery tenfold. Her concerto died down after several long, grueling minutes of screaming herself hoarse, she resorted to soft, whimpering cries.

Her mind eluded her completely, leaving her heart alone to bear her pain. She lay crumpled over Hermione’s silent, still body. Others continued to watch and stare, never seeing a Veela show her despair so plainly. Minutes felt like hours, but the Veela no longer had a use for time’s passage.

After few brave souls attempted to approach her, to comfort her, but they were met with angry warning snarls and flashes of teeth. Harry watched from a distance after having been drawn from the castle upon hearing her cries. His stubborn nature urged him to attempt to console her, though he was very reluctant to approach his friend where she lay dead. But he approached anyway, his chest constricting as a mess of brown hair came into view, then dead hazel eyes that stared without seeing. He clenched his fist and choked a sob as he stopped before the pair.

 A spark of recognition glinted in the blue eyes upon his approach; no feral growl greeted him. Assuming his welcome, he knelt in front of both Veela and his dearly departed best friend. Though he did not touch her, made no move to do so, the Veela clutched her mate closer to her body, lying on her side on the hard, cold stone. Hermione’s face was tucked beneath the blonde’s chin, limply nestled against her chest.

“She shouldn’t be like this.” Harry sighed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “She deserves life and love and happiness with you. She saved my life more times than I can count, she saved my sanity, she saved the whole bloody, God-forsaken world!” He roared. Blue eyes appraised him defensively, holding Hermione’s body impossibly tighter. She gave a low hiss and bore her teeth, her face terribly misshapen in the feral expression. Tears streamed from her eyes relentlessly, though she made no move to wipe them away as she stared, unblinking, at Harry.

“Can you hear me?” He asked hopelessly, receiving no answer from the Veela. “Fleur…? Please…” The blonde watched him carefully, her breath short and shallow as she drew it. Another sob burst from her chest with a snarl. Again, her screams ripped her throat to shreds as her entire body wrenched with the effort to throw them to the night and soon died off once more against the sky. Her voice itself was broken, cutting the air like jagged glass as it left her mouth, now in small, weak whimpers. 

The Veela turned her face into Hermione’s neck, seeming recognizing defeat. Harry reached out slowly, retracting his hand after a moment as he thought better of it. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to sob, to scream hexes at the moon for shining so bloody bright upon this massacre of innocence, future, mystery and love. He wished he could share the Veela’s pain, he wished he’d done more, he wished he could try again and do something sooner and save more lives like he so desperately wanted to do in the first place.

But there was no going back.

There would be no restoration. What was gone was dead, and could never be returned. What happened had been inscribed in his destiny from the moment of conception and everyone who had so much as a string of their own fate entwined with his had been impacted so profoundly, so permanently, it could never be unwritten. The moment that bushy-haired girl peered into his compartment the first time he rode the Hogwarts Express had begun to join the ends of strings together, previously unbound. When they both were named Gryffindors and learned the value of pride and bravery, a knot was tied. When he’d rushed to her aid at the thought of a little girl, alone and crying in a bathroom while a troll stalked the corridors, he’d thought of nothing else but helping her, not for fame or glory, but because it was the right thing to do. And as the creature lie defeated, when she took the fall in exchange for friendship and comradery, she had sealed her fate, and at the same time, though knowing was impossible, had sealed the blonde Veela’s, too. Each moment had passed with little thought to the future, to the moment when she, and her beloved, would lie dead and dying on the ground before Harry’s eyes.

He watched with a heavy heart, though bloodshot eyes and dirty, cracked glasses, as the blonde witch lay broken and bleeding, desperately clinging to her beloved. Tears poured from her eyes, making trails as the small rivers hit Hermione’s skin and carried dirt and dust over her paled cheek.

The Veela buried her nose in her mate’s hair, her eyes screwed shut. Her growls and snarls ripped from her throat, louder this time, as her body began to seize. Onlookers raised their bleary eyes once more, offering the Veela as much sympathy as they could muster. Again, they joined her cries; again the chorus filled the night as their hearts bore the burden of heavy absence and gave voice to their misery. Again, they cursed the moon and stars; again, their fists beat the ground, trying in vain to uproot some nonexistent answer as to when their torture would relent.

But only death would bring release. Only death would allow the pain to recede. Only falling into an unknown, unnamed abyss from which there is no return or consciousness would allow escape. But only the Veela would be privileged such sweet redemption. Only the Veela could not heal from the damage inflicted; the others, they could find comfort, but for the blonde Veela, no salve could be found to nurture her wounds.

And that knowledge ran within her blood, poisoning her from the inside out.

Like venom, it spread though her, the disease potent and deadly. It crippled her as her heart slowed, stuttering in her chest, but the loud, inhuman snarls that burst from her lasted till the end. Until her heart failed and she slumped lifeless against Hermione’s body, her last, shrill howl fading away into the night. Somewhere, not too far off in the distance, another cry ripped the night apart, and a burst of flame lit up the sky with the shrill noise. Seconds after the last spark had died, a heavy body hit the ground, and was still.

Harry opened his mouth, and screamed.

He screamed into the night with everyone else, adding his voice to the echoing ruin of Hogwarts. He saw, as they lay together—still, unmoving, lifeless—everything that could have been.

He saw Christmases and New Year’s celebrations and birthday parties, all surrounded by the promised love and joy they had been denied so long, unhindered by the fear that had followed them for years.

He saw a wedding ceremony and two white dresses, Fleur throwing back Hermione’s veil to find tear tracks running down her face and a broad, happy smile lifting her lips.

He saw Hermione glowing with pregnancy, Fleur proud and tall beside her, worry etched into every action as she cleared obstacles for her mate; as she held her hand during birth; as her arms encircled both the lioness, and their newborn daughter.

 He saw a little girl with an unruly blonde mane, bounding through a meadow, canning jar in hand as she chased fireflies. Another girl, barely old enough to walk, tottered after her, dark hair swept over faceted blue eyes; Hermione’s hands were outstretched protectively behind her, catching the young child just before she fell.

He saw himself playing with the young girls, building forts with them, instructing them in ways of mischief; he saw how delighted Teddy’s color-changing hair made them as they squealed happily; he watched as Fleur taught them how to map the skies, reading the stories written in the constellations of their futures and loves; he saw Hermione kissing their bruised knees and watching over them as they studied their schoolbooks, preaching the value of knowledge just as their other blonde mother preached the value of strength.

He saw the two little girls grow having been taught the value of love, this lesson given by two teachers in soft, subtle touches and words. In gentle kisses, or the way Fleur held Hermione’s hand as though she were her only anchor. The way Hermione snuggled firmly into the blonde’s arms, into her safe harbor. The laughing that ensued Christmas morning when the children threw themselves into bed with their mothers, demanding that they rise and begin to celebrate and open the gifts tucked away under the tree. He saw the two watching the sunset together, grandchildren on their knees, their knotted hands folded over one another’s, wrinkles at their eyes and lips, blonde and brown long ago surrendered to white and gray.

These things slipped through the fingers of possibility before ever having the chance to manifest. The harsh flame of reality and sorrow burned these beautiful would-be’s—could-be’s—to ash. The denial of such things wrought Harry Potter to his knees, and shattered his heart against the flagstones. He could not bear to see anymore broken possibility as his eyes flooded, and reduced his vision to blurs and color. This vision was better, he reason, than any of the others. This vision showed the world for what it was, what it had to offer: distortion, madness, meaningless shapes and colors that were somehow connected.

Someone, he hoped it was Ron, came and collected him without so much as a word, and guided him away from his dearest departed best friend and her mate, into the castle, and away from the carnage that had been so needlessly wrought.

 

Fleur’s eyes opened slowly in death, staring eternally through flesh, bone, masonry and stone; all that ever was and all that never existed. Even in death, she clutched Hermione’s body to her own in a hold that the morticians could not break. Though dead, her eyes were laden with an immortal sorrow. And even after her body had been burned to ash and spread to the corners of the earth, this sorrow would live, thrive, as it nurtured the idea of possibility and as it infected reality.

 

* * *

 

_It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea._

_That a maiden there lived, whom you may know,_

_By the name of Annabel Lee._

_This maiden, she lived, with no other thought,_

_Than to love, and be loved by me._

_I was a child, and she was a child,_

_In this kingdom by the sea,_

_But we loved with a love that was more than love,_

_I and my Annabel Lee._

_With a love that the wing’ed seraphs of Heaven_

_Coveted her and me._

_But our love was stronger by far than the love_

_Of many far older than we,_

_Of many far wiser than we,_

_And neither the angels in Heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea,_

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee._

_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_

_Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,_

_In the sepulcher down by the sea,_

_In our tomb by the surrounding sea._


	26. Response

You know, I wasn't expecting this much negative feedback. But, I'll start by saying excuse the fuck out of me. 

Yes. They died. I told you all this fic was going to go drastically off the rails, and I don't think the way I wrote it was unlikely. In war, when you kill a leader, there are ALWAYS more followers. The fucking Nazis are still a thing. The whole war doesn't end because a leader dies, and in the event that a leader dies, their followers continue to fight. So that's what happened. And if they couldn't kill the largest target, why not take out someone dear to them? I don't think that's too far-fetched. 

Additionally, I didn't want an 'and all was well' ending. Because it's overused and predictable. I like being surprised. I like being able to look forward to other endings. I like having other options. 

I was planning on having alternate endings, hell I even told you all that. A very happy ending that described everything Harry saw, but if this ending 'ruined the whole series' I guess I won't worry about it.  

I wanted to make this lifelike, realistic, not 'they skipped away happily ever fucking after with a trail of dead bodies behind them, blood on their hands, and no PTSD whatsoever. The end.'

So, for those of you who enjoyed my series, and continued to give me freedom to write and end my story however I damn well please and ASKED for alternates, this message is not directed to you, and I thank you for that. 

For the others, specifically those who left rude comments, if you can't handle this, I'm sorry I disappointed you for not having the classic Disney princess ending. Check out foreshadowing, because I gave you A LOT of it. Moreover, some of the best novels and classics of history are tragedies, and they start out happy-happy joy-joy too. Do their endings ruin them? No, because for one reason or another, people like being surprised, like the turn, like the emotional attachment and then the slap of reality. An ending doesn't define a story. It's the road there, the build up, the suspense. Does anyone like the ending to Romeo and Juliet? Or Grimm's fairy tales? Or the fucking Titanic? Or Les Mis? No, because they're sad as shit but it's the story as a whole that brings them in, keeps them reading again and again and again. Even more than that, it's the emotion put into the play that captures people. And if this ending ruins A WHOLE SERIES, I suggest you stop reading at all, because you never know how something will end, or if it will live up to your expectations. Kind of the point of this shit. 

Not liking this ending is completely understandable, but to say I ruined my series, or that it was crap is appalling. Did I lack in my language or grammar or description? Did I lose hold of the characters? Did I jump between universes that were as closely related as alpha/omega and Catholic school fics? Or was it just because they died? If it's because you truly felt I slacked in something literary, I accept that, and I would like to know what exactly it was. But if it was the events as they unfolded, I honestly don't give a shit. I stepped away from the norm, away from 'all was well' and gave something realistic, something foreshadowed, something emotional, and TOLD you I had alternates planned, but apparently you missed those memos and had the fucking audacity to tell me I ruined everything. 

Tragedy is remembered. Tragedy is sudden. Tragedy is real.

I spent four years on this. You spent nearly two years keeping up with it. If the ending makes all those smiles and laughs meaningless, I don't know what to tell you other than I hope you enjoyed this while you thought everything was going to be happy. As a writer, I am under no obligation to tailor my story to your specific expectations as a reader. I am the author of this story. If you want a happy ending, go write your own.

 


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